Day 1: Frenzy.

Well, that was nuts. Let me just share with you a little bit about the past 24 hours. And if anyone has forgotten how to struggle, you're in luck! I shall remind you how it's done. So, 18 hours after leaving Eugene, I arrived in the Buenos Aires airport. As the plane ascends, I look out the window and see green everywhere. And naturally I think to myself, "ah what a picturesque South American scene." However, opposition quickly reveals itself minutes later as we leave our gate and begin the trek to exit the airport. (Little did I know it would be more than three hours before this feat was accomplished). So I'm walking down the stairs, chit chatting with fellow smiling passengers, until we see what lays before us. I can feel my face drop as I get the first glimpse at what I truly envision as the gates of Hell. Visa lines. There are literally swarms of people, hundreds I'd guess, zig-zagging in rows in every which way with airport attendants barking directions in Spanish. So many people, in fact, that the waiting line is backed up half way up the stairs. So we start wait, inching forward every couple minutes, and this obviously lasts an hour. (Now of course, everyone is pissed about this--it sucks, but Hawaiian shirt guy in front of me starts lecturing about the confusion of the directions, and informs surrounding line-waiters, in a brilliantly obvious Southern accent, that he will be cutting half of them. Yay for American impressions!) I promise this won't be an entirely negative description, but I told myself I had to reveal the entirety of this day, not just the fun parts. Besides, who would I be if I wasn't complaining at leeaast a little?
Anywho, I somehow make it through that fiasco successfully, and move on the baggage claim. Now this is where the fun begins. I criss-cross my two overweight carry on items across my chest, manage to load up the 30-pound backpack (thanks for that death-trap, Soph!) onto my shoulders, and begin to lug my 60-pound, polka-dotted, clearly-marked 'HEAVY', suitcase towards customs. At this point, bystanders are not even trying to conceal their laughter. And please keep in mind that I'm entirely alone, and blatantly foreign. (And not in that intriguing, or endearing way, but the painfully lame way). So with over 100 pounds of luggage, I meander towards the customs waiting line. On my way there, I decide I shouldn't waste time following the trend of those around me (why would I trust an Argentinian in their native country?) by getting a luggage cart so instead I just get directly in line. I start to sweat profusely as the weight of the bags and heat of the non-conditioned airport begin to hit me. At this time I decide it would be best to remove all the bags from my body, and just drag them throughout the remaining line, approx. 1 mile in length. So every 45 seconds I regather the 4-piece luggage collection (and my sweatshirt too, that has now been dropped on every surface of the airport floor--so glad I only brought the one!) and pull, push, carry and kick them 3 inches. After what feels like a day of receiving glares from the couple behind me, I reach the front. I proceed to heave each bag onto the x-ray machine, feeling relieved for a moment without them, before I cross the threshold to the spit-out point. By the time I've reached this, all four bags (and the damn sweatshirt) are piled up on top of each other, blocking all other bags from completing their x-ray trip. I make the executive decision that blocking the pathway for passing people would be much better so I pull all the bags around me instead. After more growls from airport goers, I manage to reload the bags and head for the exit.
At this point, I see more people, hoards in fact, waiting for their loved ones to emerge from the sliding doors, doors that have separated one chaotic scene from another. And it is at this point, that I realize I have to start speaking Spanish. Unfortunately, I feel that this painfully detailed description is enough for one day, so I'll just briefly summarize the remaining hours of the day. They consist of the following: zero working bathrooms, dozens of eye-rolls (surprisingly enough, not from me), plenty of impromptu, forced games of charades in lieu of verbal communication, and the discovery of my favorite, and most useful Spanish phrase: "Hola, hablas Ingles?" Works like a charm. And hey Sheila, there's your language tidbit of the day, as requested!
So apart from these taxing and embarrassing hours, I was able to make it to Rosario alive, and mostly in tact. And despite this information, the trip is actually off to a great start, so no worries, team! My computer's dying and I can barely keep my eyes open so I'll update more later. And I promise to provide valuable descriptions, as expected of a study-abroader, about the beautiful people, stray dogs, and new sights (I legit saw a family of four riding a motorcycle. ONE motorcycle. No helmets, obvi.) That's all for now, see you back here soon! 


love,
Henya