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
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
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
Monday, April 2, 2012
Day 8: It's like I'm Sherlock Holmes or something...
Hello all. So glad you’re enjoying the posts! This is what I’m thinking--today, I’m going to tell you everything I’ve noticed so far about Argentinian life and culture. I figure I should do that before I’ve been here too long and forget what’s weird. Because it is weird. And I have to assume that in no time at all I’ll have forgotten what it’s like to be a visitor to this confusing country (I mean, if adjusting has been this easy so far, I can only imagine the simplicities that are to follow). Once that inevitably occurs, I won’t be able to make these deepened and descriptive observations. I’m just saying, my complete assimilation is right around the corner, trust me. So for your benefit, I’ll explain the unfamiliar nuances of Argentina. Spoken like a true outsider, here are my findings:
1) I’m learning multiple languages. Spanish, first of all, which I’m killing by the way. You should see me when I’ve had a few drinks--I’m practically fluent! I’m sure Spanish speakers think so too. And secondly, I’m being forced to study the entire set of hand signals they use to shorten requests, or send a very clear message. Let me explain. In the U.S., (which will henceforce be referred to as the “normal” place) if someone does something stupid, we give them the finger. But here in Argentina, there are 8 ways to get the same point across. And as I’m sure you can imagine it’s been quite fun trying to distinguish between them. Also, in restaurants back home in normal-town waiters come to the table and take our orders. But here, there are separate signals to notify the waiter when you want the check, need another coffee, etc. Very confusing. Which brings me to my next observation (and yes, they’re all going to be this profound, so get excited).
2) Restaurant etiquette is wack. And also non-existent. So everyone here likes to take their time doing everyyything. Which is great, I understand that we all need to take a minute to slow down and appreciate life, etc. etc. And I really am adjusting to the no coffee-to-go thing, or at least I’m trying. But this is different. So here in Rosario, we come into the restaurant, cafe, whatever, and sit down, expecting a waiter to come over with menus or something of the sort. But no. They, too, like to take their time. We, the customer, have no choice but to participate in this ridiculous back and forth game where we attempt to get their attention, and they, the wait staff, ignore us. Repeatedly. Eventually they give in and take our orders (and as you may have guessed, our broken Spanish is welcomed with open arms). But at every restaurant, and at every stage of ordering (drinks, food, getting the check), this waiting period is fascinating. I truly have no idea how people here get anything done. Luckily for my fellow study-abroaders and me, we have all the time in the world. So we just sit back, analyze this strange way of living, and wait.
3) Every day, when I walk down the sidewalks and am eventually forced to cross the streets, I feel as though I’m holding my life in my own two hands. Driving here should be illegal. We were told on our first day that cars don’t stop for people, so we have to be careful. We sort of snickered at this advice, thinking it was a crazy idea. Of course cars stop for people, they wouldn’t want to kill pedestrians, right? Wrong. I think the drivers here have a death wish for anyone who gets in their way. If that’s you, or me in most cases, that means they honk repeatedly and refuse to slow down. They also use those handy-dandy, and ever so friendly hand signals that I’m becoming so familiar with. They really don’t wait. You wait, or you run. Sprint, in fact, to get out of their way. No one uses blinkers, or stays within the lanes. They speed like bats out of Hell, careening around corners and running red lights. Oh and get this--I’ve seen one stop sign the entire time I’ve been here. The most common form of an intersection is a no-way stop. Please recall that you all get the luxury of frequenting 4-way stops all the way back in Normal City, USA (or Canada for the Sommers and Josh). But no, not here. Instead, at these no-way stops, everyone plays chicken with each other, speeding forward until one car is forced to slam on its breaks for the faster car (enter hand signals) and then hurry forward, making everyone around them stop, thus continuing this dangerous and crazed cycle. I’m telling you, it’s a shitshow.
4) I’ve never been stared at this much in my entire life. This is by far the strangest thing I’ve encountered and the most difficult adjustment I’ve had to make. At any point when I’m out in public, specifically when I’m with 1-10 others from the U.S., we are physically on display for all to see, and openly ponder. I realize that this is not New York City, or even Buenos Aires, but in a city of over a million people, I assumed that the people here would have stumbled upon a tourist at one point or another. But shockingly enough, I was wrong, yet again. I’m truly not sure that these Argentinians have ever come into contact with an English speaking foreigner before now. I’m struggling to figure out how to explain how weird it is. I can only compare it to the movie Mean Girls, when the four girls are walking down the hallway, strutting their stuff in slow motion, as everyone moves out of their way to stare at their beauty and profound popularity. Except for it’s not like that at all because here, no one moves out of the way, and that’s not why people are staring. The other night, for example, I walked into a bar with a friend (everyone, meet Shelby, she’s the friend that will be making guest appearances in these posts. Maybe you will recall her from the watch/Hunger Games/iPod shopping experience). Anywho I’m not exaggerating when I say that every person in there whipped their heads around to stare and turned to follow us as we walked by. I sort of imagined everything going silent and only being able to hear our creaking footsteps as everyone’s eyes widen in confusion. (Again, much like a scene out of a movie). I don’t even know how they can tell so fast that we’re out-of -towners. But somehow, they know. Or the other day, we went on a walking tour around Rosario and had stopped to take pictures of a monument (aka a normal example of a photo-op.), when I notice two guys who have stopped to pull out their cameras and take pictures of us! Do you understand how weird that is?? Celebrities, I now know what it’s like. I finally understand your hardships. (I’m sure many of them are reading this and they’d probably appreciate a shout out too. So Jbiebs, Jlo, Jen Aniston, and Oprah--I feel you). Oh and my favorite is when a group of us are walking down the street and someone goes out of their way to point us out to the people they’re talking to. Like we have interrupted their normal conversation simply by passing by and they all feel the need to look, and comment. It doesn’t matter what language you’re speaking guys, the blatant pointing makes the topic of your conversation pretty clear. I’m telling you we’re gawked at like attractions in a museum, with no attempt at discretion. All together, this has lead me to completely give up on trying to obey social norms. Because a) I don’t know what they are and b) I now realize that no matter what I do, I’ll be stared at. I have come to accept that ironically enough, I’m actually the weird one here. Who woulda thunk, right...
So those are the main mysteries (now do you get the title of this post? Clever, right?) that I’m currently trying to unfold and get used to. In addition, I’ve compiled a few extra weird things about this part of the world that I feel should be shared: The sun is hotter here; the stray dogs are smarter than people; mayonaise is used like ketchup, it’s put on everything; there’s next to no recycling--if you know me but at all (wink wink momo), you’ll know this kills me; you can’t just get a cup of water at most restaurants, and it costs as much as soda or coffee if you want to order it; oh and the timing of everything is totally weird. People eat dinner at 10pm, go out at 2am, and stay out until 6:30. On most nights Sylvia stays up later than me, and please remember that she’s 60. Oh and rounding out this fun little list, I’ve probably seen 10 McDonalds restaurants and Starbucks is nowhere to be found (delightfully fitting for the vegetarian, caffeine addict, no?). Alright that’s about it. I’m sure every day will open the door to new, enriching discoveries like these, and I’ll be sure to share them with you. But like I said, at the rate I’m going, I’ll probably blend in with the locals in no time! So I’ll tell you how that goes too. Miss you all! And please enjoy the normalcy of North America on my behalf, would you?
love,
Henya
P.S. if you notice my vocabulary diminishing, and my grammar worsening, please forgive me. It has become almost impossible to speak any language at all. That’s been yet another fun side effect of learning a language.
P.P.S. If the above complaints and confusions didn’t sell you on Rosario and I somehow failed to convey the following message, please know I really do love it here! It’s extremely fun. Please come visit! Or if that doesn’t work, travel somewhere else and try to write a blog that’s as cool as mine.
1) I’m learning multiple languages. Spanish, first of all, which I’m killing by the way. You should see me when I’ve had a few drinks--I’m practically fluent! I’m sure Spanish speakers think so too. And secondly, I’m being forced to study the entire set of hand signals they use to shorten requests, or send a very clear message. Let me explain. In the U.S., (which will henceforce be referred to as the “normal” place) if someone does something stupid, we give them the finger. But here in Argentina, there are 8 ways to get the same point across. And as I’m sure you can imagine it’s been quite fun trying to distinguish between them. Also, in restaurants back home in normal-town waiters come to the table and take our orders. But here, there are separate signals to notify the waiter when you want the check, need another coffee, etc. Very confusing. Which brings me to my next observation (and yes, they’re all going to be this profound, so get excited).
2) Restaurant etiquette is wack. And also non-existent. So everyone here likes to take their time doing everyyything. Which is great, I understand that we all need to take a minute to slow down and appreciate life, etc. etc. And I really am adjusting to the no coffee-to-go thing, or at least I’m trying. But this is different. So here in Rosario, we come into the restaurant, cafe, whatever, and sit down, expecting a waiter to come over with menus or something of the sort. But no. They, too, like to take their time. We, the customer, have no choice but to participate in this ridiculous back and forth game where we attempt to get their attention, and they, the wait staff, ignore us. Repeatedly. Eventually they give in and take our orders (and as you may have guessed, our broken Spanish is welcomed with open arms). But at every restaurant, and at every stage of ordering (drinks, food, getting the check), this waiting period is fascinating. I truly have no idea how people here get anything done. Luckily for my fellow study-abroaders and me, we have all the time in the world. So we just sit back, analyze this strange way of living, and wait.
3) Every day, when I walk down the sidewalks and am eventually forced to cross the streets, I feel as though I’m holding my life in my own two hands. Driving here should be illegal. We were told on our first day that cars don’t stop for people, so we have to be careful. We sort of snickered at this advice, thinking it was a crazy idea. Of course cars stop for people, they wouldn’t want to kill pedestrians, right? Wrong. I think the drivers here have a death wish for anyone who gets in their way. If that’s you, or me in most cases, that means they honk repeatedly and refuse to slow down. They also use those handy-dandy, and ever so friendly hand signals that I’m becoming so familiar with. They really don’t wait. You wait, or you run. Sprint, in fact, to get out of their way. No one uses blinkers, or stays within the lanes. They speed like bats out of Hell, careening around corners and running red lights. Oh and get this--I’ve seen one stop sign the entire time I’ve been here. The most common form of an intersection is a no-way stop. Please recall that you all get the luxury of frequenting 4-way stops all the way back in Normal City, USA (or Canada for the Sommers and Josh). But no, not here. Instead, at these no-way stops, everyone plays chicken with each other, speeding forward until one car is forced to slam on its breaks for the faster car (enter hand signals) and then hurry forward, making everyone around them stop, thus continuing this dangerous and crazed cycle. I’m telling you, it’s a shitshow.
4) I’ve never been stared at this much in my entire life. This is by far the strangest thing I’ve encountered and the most difficult adjustment I’ve had to make. At any point when I’m out in public, specifically when I’m with 1-10 others from the U.S., we are physically on display for all to see, and openly ponder. I realize that this is not New York City, or even Buenos Aires, but in a city of over a million people, I assumed that the people here would have stumbled upon a tourist at one point or another. But shockingly enough, I was wrong, yet again. I’m truly not sure that these Argentinians have ever come into contact with an English speaking foreigner before now. I’m struggling to figure out how to explain how weird it is. I can only compare it to the movie Mean Girls, when the four girls are walking down the hallway, strutting their stuff in slow motion, as everyone moves out of their way to stare at their beauty and profound popularity. Except for it’s not like that at all because here, no one moves out of the way, and that’s not why people are staring. The other night, for example, I walked into a bar with a friend (everyone, meet Shelby, she’s the friend that will be making guest appearances in these posts. Maybe you will recall her from the watch/Hunger Games/iPod shopping experience). Anywho I’m not exaggerating when I say that every person in there whipped their heads around to stare and turned to follow us as we walked by. I sort of imagined everything going silent and only being able to hear our creaking footsteps as everyone’s eyes widen in confusion. (Again, much like a scene out of a movie). I don’t even know how they can tell so fast that we’re out-of -towners. But somehow, they know. Or the other day, we went on a walking tour around Rosario and had stopped to take pictures of a monument (aka a normal example of a photo-op.), when I notice two guys who have stopped to pull out their cameras and take pictures of us! Do you understand how weird that is?? Celebrities, I now know what it’s like. I finally understand your hardships. (I’m sure many of them are reading this and they’d probably appreciate a shout out too. So Jbiebs, Jlo, Jen Aniston, and Oprah--I feel you). Oh and my favorite is when a group of us are walking down the street and someone goes out of their way to point us out to the people they’re talking to. Like we have interrupted their normal conversation simply by passing by and they all feel the need to look, and comment. It doesn’t matter what language you’re speaking guys, the blatant pointing makes the topic of your conversation pretty clear. I’m telling you we’re gawked at like attractions in a museum, with no attempt at discretion. All together, this has lead me to completely give up on trying to obey social norms. Because a) I don’t know what they are and b) I now realize that no matter what I do, I’ll be stared at. I have come to accept that ironically enough, I’m actually the weird one here. Who woulda thunk, right...
So those are the main mysteries (now do you get the title of this post? Clever, right?) that I’m currently trying to unfold and get used to. In addition, I’ve compiled a few extra weird things about this part of the world that I feel should be shared: The sun is hotter here; the stray dogs are smarter than people; mayonaise is used like ketchup, it’s put on everything; there’s next to no recycling--if you know me but at all (wink wink momo), you’ll know this kills me; you can’t just get a cup of water at most restaurants, and it costs as much as soda or coffee if you want to order it; oh and the timing of everything is totally weird. People eat dinner at 10pm, go out at 2am, and stay out until 6:30. On most nights Sylvia stays up later than me, and please remember that she’s 60. Oh and rounding out this fun little list, I’ve probably seen 10 McDonalds restaurants and Starbucks is nowhere to be found (delightfully fitting for the vegetarian, caffeine addict, no?). Alright that’s about it. I’m sure every day will open the door to new, enriching discoveries like these, and I’ll be sure to share them with you. But like I said, at the rate I’m going, I’ll probably blend in with the locals in no time! So I’ll tell you how that goes too. Miss you all! And please enjoy the normalcy of North America on my behalf, would you?
love,
Henya
P.S. if you notice my vocabulary diminishing, and my grammar worsening, please forgive me. It has become almost impossible to speak any language at all. That’s been yet another fun side effect of learning a language.
P.P.S. If the above complaints and confusions didn’t sell you on Rosario and I somehow failed to convey the following message, please know I really do love it here! It’s extremely fun. Please come visit! Or if that doesn’t work, travel somewhere else and try to write a blog that’s as cool as mine.
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