On Being a Porteño

Walking is always my preferred mode of getting from point A to B. This is never more true than when I am in cities. For me, the many people are individual expressions of a place. A popular billboard displayed around Buenos Aires reads, “Cada Persona es un Mundo,” which translates to “Every Person is a World.” This phrase rings true as I watch a little boy sit next to me in the park and roll his car up and down the planks on our bench, or the vegetable vendor laying out his tomatoes with such care that I look back to be sure that he isn’t actually handling eggs. In our motives, our daily tasks, and our personalities, we are incredibly complex and distinct. 

But, in observing people, there are also similar patterns and repeated behaviors that stand out. The common ways people dress, walk, talk, or behave leaves a cultural impression. It takes time, and lots of observation, to really know a culture through the people. And just as I have spent many hours watching them, I too have been observed. 

Often, I have been asked where I am from before I even open my mouth. However, today I had a break through while standing at a corner waiting for the light to change. A man stopped and asked me if I knew where the train station was. I looked up the street, pointed to it, and answered in Spanish. He thanked me and headed for the entrance. Not more than 20 seconds later, an older woman approached and asked if I knew where the Librería was. I told her I didn’t know. 

Then she asked, “De donde eres?” 

I told I was from the United States and she laughed and gave my forearm a squeeze.

“Ah, Soorry,” she said.

I answered that it was no problem. Had there been time, I would have jubilantly explained, “You actually made my day. You thought I was one of you.” 

The Puerto Madero
which is why residents are known as Porteños

Instead I looked down at my arms. Yes, they have been browned by the summer sun. Also, Marisa has grown quite adept at navigating our route around the city by memory. We are no longer searching each corner for a street sign and squinting over our laminated map. At least at a glance, we are passing as porteños (the name given to people living in Buenos Aires). 

But perhaps it is not just the tan and our familiarity with the streets. It may be that I, myself, am no longer such a wide-eyed observer. Just as they are coming to know me, I am learning to recognize them.  Though the city is made up of almost 3 million individuals, here is what I have inferred of their common culture.

1. Walking is a leisurely activity. The sidewalks of Buenos Aires are generally crowded and sometimes very narrow. Still, people of all ages walk slowly taking time to chat with friends coming the opposite direction. If you can’t get around to the front of the crowd at the street light, fall into line and take it in slow stride.
2. Remember to suck your soda. Coca Cola is the beverage of choice. You see adults and children drinking it in the park, on the street, or even at the cafes. However, they don’t just swig from the bottle. They sip it through a straw.
3. Don’t baby the baby. There are lots of babies all over the city (and many pregnant mamas too). However, I have not spotted a single baby carrier (the kind that doubles as a car seat) and only a handful of Baby Bjorns (the front-loading baby backpack). Most babies, even the really tiny ones, are simply carried in arm through the busy and often dirty streets.
4. Watch out for the rise and fall. There is a very distinctive rise to the women’s pants in in Buenos Aires. They tend to be on both extremes of a spectrum--the too-short rise that  leaves no part of the female anatomy to the imagination and the ultra-long rise that looks like a penguin.
5. Fútbol is the Argentinian basketball. After work many of the young men go to the soccer fields to play. There is rivalry and camaraderie--what you might expect to see on a basketball court in the U.S. And the game is not just for the players. Pack a picnic dinner and watch the game unfold field-side. 
6. Why hug when we can kiss? The Argentinians are very demonstrative with their affections. There is the beso that you give upon meeting a friend, and then there are the besos between couples that can be spotted in almost any park and on many street corners. Though the smooching is sometimes a bit much, for the most part it's nice to see how free people feel to express their love, or lust. In the unlikely event that a couple should desire a little more privacy, they can be quite resourceful. Hiding beneath a picnic tablecloth is one method. But my favorite kiss, so far, took place in plain sight. Here's how it unfolded. Woman waits on corner. Light changes and man crosses the street, making a beeline for her. Before even saying hello, man takes woman's face and plants passionate kiss on her lips. Oh, to be kissed like that.

Familiar and Unsettling

We’ve been in Buenos Aires for over a week. Though there have been days with no set agenda, we have kept ourselves busy. The city streets near our apartment have grown familiar and with that comes the feeling of belonging to a place. I have even spotted the building custodian around the neighborhood. Again, there is a pleasure in knowing someone, even if it’s just the person you call when the stove isn’t working.

As I get more comfortable here, more sure of where to go and what to say, I am also discovering things that are less comfortable, or perhaps less digestible. While we are staying in a relatively upscale neighborhood, there is a sense of scarcity even here. Like the rest of the world, the economic situation has people on edge. The banks have strict regulations on how much money people can withdraw in a day, about US$250 and sometimes less. There are times of the day or towards the end of the week when it is impossible to withdraw any money at all, the ATMs are empty.

In addition, there is a shortage of small bills. At the grocery store, the cashier will often give more money in return rather than give the correct amount of coinage. Also, at many restaurants, if you try to pay for a bill with AR$100 (equivalent to US$25), they will often not have change. That’s what happened to us at dinner last night. 

When I don't feel comfortable carrying
a camera, I sometimes sketch.

This shortage of money has a visible effect on the poorest of the Argentine population. While sitting at cafes, restaurants, or even at the park, it is very likely that you will be approached by children and adults who are trying to pedal everything from pens to socks. Most people simply lay the items on your table or lap and move on to the next table, returning in a few minutes to either collect the items or your money.

The most troublesome instance occurred last night while Marisa and I were out for dinner with an American friend. Around 11 PM, a young girl who was definitely no more than ten years old approached our table. She swaggered over carrying herself like some one twice her age. Speaking at lightning speed, and breaking off to bite a piece of her blood sausage sandwich, she leaned onto the table and asked us for money. We said we didn’t have any and offered her a piece of pizza. “Eso no me gusta,” she tossed back, as a piece of blood sausage dropped onto the table. She began picking up our bottles of water and peering in to see if there was any left. I offered her my half full bottle. She took it and proceeded to chug without pausing for a breath. When she had drunk the last drop, she looked down the neck of the bottle. Satisfied that there was none left, she moved on to the next table where she made off with a bottle of Coca Cola. 

We too went on our way. We walked the dark streets quickly, aware of the possible dangers. But it is not just danger that feels unsettling, it is the constant presence of hardened children and weary adults hustling for a few pesos.

First Impressions of Buenos Aires

My sister, Marisa, and I will stay in Buenos Aires for the next three months. Marisa will take classes to progress in her study of tango; she has been dancing in the U.S. for almost three years. I hope to teach English for a few hours each day and also improve my Spanish.  We rent a small house in the neighborhood of Palermo. 

I didn't take picture of the fabulous sunlight,
but here is the evening view.

Last night we slept without blankets. Even though Marisa left the balcony door wide open, the night air never grew chilly. As far as I can tell, Buenos Aires lives up to its name. I awoke this morning rested and ready to see what the first full day would bring. The sun streamed in through the large sliding glass doors and a woman wearing a colorful house coat watered her hanging potted plants in the adjacent apartment building. 

The streets offered their share of excitement. We strolled to the a neighborhood called Recoleta. As we waited at a street crossing a spectacled man standing in front of me turned around and said, “Hace calor.” It was extremely hot, so I answered, “Sí.”  From that single syllable, he deduced that I was American and promptly began to explain in a mixture of English and Spanish why he didn’t like Obama. His critique has nothing to do with Obama’s foreign policies. The man’s dislike is purely personal. It turns out that Obama has an uncanny resemblance to his ex girlfriend’s new boyfriend. Moreover, the Obama look alike showers his girlfriend with gifts. I told the man that I was sorry things hadn’t worked out in his favor and then let him walk up ahead.

After a brief stop and the Casa Rosada which is a familiar sight to anyone who has ever seen the musical Evita, we headed down a side street. We kept a steady pace, each immersed in our own thoughts. Suddenly there came a scream from further up the block  followed by the sound of a quickly accelerating motorcycle. It whizzed by carrying two men. The man in back held his helmet under his arm and looked back quickly. Within a split second several men ran past me whistling and yelling. They were followed by an elderly woman saying, “Me robaron mi cellular.” I stood by for a few seconds wondering if there was anything I could do. Deciding there wasn’t, I continued down the street. 

For now, Buenos Aires remains an enigma. I am enjoying the weather, the architecture, and the plants, but have yet to confidently navigate the people who live here. 

Reflections for a New Year

I took my family's three dogs for a walk over the train tracks, through the forest, and along the river.  The dogs ran free following scents only their noses smelled.  I walked along in silence, except for the snow crunching underfoot.  The bleak grey sky scared me. It felt vast and lonely.  I often feel a bit melancholy when I’m alone in nature--it calls to mind the inescapable cycle of change.  

Melancholy is not always bad though--it also makes me want to face reality as it is and love it’s imperfections and disappointments. The new year finds me far from where I was last year--in a different place with new plans.  I am in Iowa until mid-February when I will fly to Buenos Aires where I will stay until June.  Upstate New York and the life I lived there is quickly becoming a chapter in my past.  Somewhere I was, which will go on changing in my absence. 

As for me, I am changing too. I appreciate all the joy in my life over the past year--time with family, dinner with friends, exhilarating hikes, honest conversations, and big belly laughs.  I am happy for opportunities I have had to study English and publish my writing.  I take with me new skills as well.  This year I learned to build a fire, rock climb, and to be better at corresponding with friends far away. 

Like every year, there have been disappoints and sadnesses as well.  I am learning to accept those things that are most difficult.  To do this, I take my cue from the dogs.  Dedicate yourself to the moment, a new adventure may only be a sniff away. 

Stove Troubles

Upstate is cold now.  Windshields are coated with frost in the morning. The storm windows are up.  And regrettably, my apartment feels like an icebox.  The heating system has changed since last year which means that the coal stove was replaced by a gas stove.  This is a definite upgrade for my landlord who was responsible maintaining the coal stove's 12 hour cycle.  Each morning and evening without fail, he had to rock the grates on the stove to shake out any ash.  When that was done the ash had to be cleared and then sifted for bits of coal that had not yet burned. Those bits were placed in a bucket that was then topped off with fresh coal to be dumped into the stove.  

The whole process was complicated by a rather tricky thermometer system that I didn't fully understand.  What I do know is that shaking the grates was an exhausting task that could not be stopped until the heat had spiked above a certain temperature.  I never got the hang of shaking and the few times I tried to stoke the stove, the results were catastrophic.  On those occasions, I was responsible for almost putting out what I came to think of as the eternal flame and would then need call in a rescue stoker, usually my landlord, to return order to the cycle.  

Still, the new gas stove has proved a definite downgrade when it comes to getting heat into my apartment.  The problem lies in the proximity of the stove to the thermostat, no more than 10 feet away.  Both are located in the downstairs kitchen that my landlords inhabit and the thermostat is set to 68 degrees.  This would be a very reasonable indoor temperature if the small pocket of warmth were not counted upon to heat the entire three-story stone mansion.  To make matters icier, my apartment is located in the tower which has no insolation.  In fact, it gets so cold in the back rooms that the closet doors must be kept open to keep the pipes from freezing.       

I don’t do well in the cold.  My tendencies are frog-like--slow down, move as little as possible.  Now I spend my evenings tucked under wool blankets with a hot corn bag on my feet and a space heater at my side dreaming of South America.  

My Future, My Bicycle

I am back in Essex armed with a plan: 1) Apply to Journalism MA program at University of Missouri 2) Work 3) Save money 4) Spend winter/spring 2011 in Buenos Aires with my sister.  So far, the plan is on track.  I have fussed of over my application essays, snagged four jobs and an internship, stopped traveling on weekends, and sent a letter of inquiry to over 20 English language institutes in Buenos Aires.  It is my hope that I will be able to support myself there by teaching ESL.  

It is my beautiful black bicycle, referred to by friends as my cadillac, that is making this all happen.  My future is quite literally riding on it.  Without my black beauty, I could never commute between all my jobs.  

Four of the jobs are sources of greatly appreciated income.  I take a ferry and then pedal my way to a little grocer/cafe in Vermont, pump up two steep hills to the preschool where I must build my own fire and set about sorting through hopelessly confused files, speed back down hill to paint trim in town, and then wearily wobble home to write some press releases for a freelance gig.  These efforts are for rent money, food, and the ticket to Buenos Aires.  For school, I ferry and bike three more times a week to Vermont and intern for a healthy food and living magazine.  Though they don’t know it yet, they will reimburse me with a fantastic letter of recommendation--hopefully raving about my smarts and sharp writing skills--for journalism school.    

Sunday is my day off.  The day that I have time to go rock climbing, cook a huge pot of quinoa for the week, do laundry, catch up on emails, and write this blog.  My bicycle stands still, safely perched on the back porch protected by the awning.  We are taking a deep inhale before turning into the wind and starting another week, another hill.   

Brotherly Love

Making faces in the train station.

For two and a half weeks now I have been with my brother Anthony, who lives in Philadelphia.  He has been the most gracious host and has allowed me to live out some of the college life that I never experienced.  

I sped through college--in and out in three years while holding down a part-time job.  It was high school that Anthony skipped.  When he was 16, instead of starting his junior year, he jumped into an early start college on the East Coast.  At the time, I was his only immediate family within reach by bus or train.  He spent many of his vacations with me in Manhattan.  

Anthony in turn was the one who knew my world there most intimately.  He came to class with me and played Simon and Garfunkel for my students.  When visiting, he joined me for my nightly walks to Washington Square Park and sat with me at my favorite coffee shop in the East Village.  He was my sidekick.

Now it’s my turn to visit him.  Without work, I am the one with the time to visit for a few weeks.  He comes home from work to find me hanging out in his apartment.  He treats me to coffee.  

At 20, he is somewhere between his friends at college that he still visits on weekends and his coworkers at the laboratory.  He stays up late and stumbles out of bed moments before pulling on pants and running out the door to work.  On the weekends, he slips into what I call coma sleep and cannot be awoken before noon.  He cleans up the apartment more to appease me than out of preference.  

Living with him, I am allowed to unleash my own 20 year old or as much of her as I can let out.  I have learned to just shut the door and go out and have fun even if the apartment looks like a tornado just blew through.  I am getting better and better at this, although I still worry that the stacks of dirty dishes will attract house pests.  When it comes to sleep, my internal alarm clock has rolled back and I wake up around 8 instead of 6:30.  

Best of all, I had my very first ever crash on some random person’s couch.  Actually the couch wasn’t exactly random and it wasn’t exactly by choice, but I did sleep on a properly beer stained college futon in the living room of his friend’s house.  We meant to go home on the train as it was my one request to sleep in my own bed.

I should have known this request might be too much to ask since Anthony is notorious for confusing schedules and missing busses, trains, and flights.  That’s what happened and all we could do is go back to the apartment from which we had just said our goodbyes.  They were gracious hosts and welcomed us back to their living room furnished with a hodge podge of fold out chairs and a large table with a sticky top that was covered with bottles of alcohol, plastic coffee cups, and an unclaimed jug of Clamato juice.  

As I said, the hosts were gracious and when I said that I couldn’t possibly keep my eyes open a minute longer, they separated my futon from the other half of the room by pulling across a make-shift rod and offering a blanket.  I gratefully accepted and was asleep before they got back to their drinks and games.  

The part that really made me proud was only relayed to me the next morning.  A roommate who I had not met arrived home late and needed to walk past me to get to the party.  I was told that he flung back the curtain and asked, “Who the hell is this girl on the couch?”  I have never been that girl on the couch and for that I can thank Anthony.  

I woke Anthony up early the next morning and we took a train back into Philadelphia.  To my surprise, I didn’t feel half bad being in public with yesterday’s underwear and morning breath.  A small inconvenience in comparison to spending time with a brother I love dearly.