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
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