On Availability of Information... Or why you should never tell me anything... ever...

I am a terrible secret keeper. This is mainly because I think the more information out there the better. And I think that anything that anyone would want to keep a secret is kind of ridiculous. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for personal privacy. I don’t need to (or want to) know everything about your life (believe me, I really don’t want to hear about it… This may be why my response to most conversations is slack-jawed staring. Take a hint, people!) But really, if it’s supposed to be a secret or on the d-l, why are you telling me? I am not related in anyway, except that I probably know and am friends with the person you are telling me about. And really, the joke’s on you because the minute they buy me a drink, I go a loose-lipped and will confess any secret that I have ever heard, even if it is completely unrelated… to anything… ever. (Loose-lipped is such a funny phrase. Imagine if we all had literally loose lips, they’d be all over the place! At one point, they detach themselves from our faces and rampage through the streets until they took over and ruled the world!!! It’d be like The Blob, only with lips! NOOO!!! … heh … Okay, tequila hangover, please go away now. This is ridiculous.)

Whatever you are telling a secret about is probably not worth it. It is some stupid fact that shouldn’t be a secret, something that will hurt someone else, or a surprise.

First of all, if it’s some little unimportant tidbit, then by telling me, you are making me a part of some little exclusive club. And in case you haven’t noticed, not really into the whole exclusivity thing, considering I spent the majority of my college years in hippiesque, dirty, communal living situations … and have you seen my eyebrows recently? I haven’t done anything with them for at least the past six-months. Point being, I wouldn’t make the A-list for any club in the city, so why would I want to be part of your secret-club? (Although if it is, like, an actual secret society, call me. I’m all about Druid robes.)

Secondly, if it’s a secret that hurts someone, as pointed out before hand, I probably know them and they are my friend. Of course, I’m going to tell them, you asshole! He/she is my friend!!! I don’t want to see them get hurt by a jerkface like you, who would first do something that would emotionally damage them and then not tell them about it. I hope you preemptively take away from this conversation that if you ever do anything to hurt my friends, I will cut you. ‘Nough said.

Finally, if it’s a surprise, THESE ARE MY FAVORITE!!! I LOVE SURPRISES! I love them so much I want them to happen RIGHT NOW! I hate waiting for surprises to happen. Mainly because it involves a party and I like parties. (Although not socializing with other people. Weird, I know…) This is also a problem, though. Because, whoever the surprise is for, I want that person to be as happy and excited as I am for them. So I will probably tell them that you are planning something special for them, hence ruining the surprise. Sorry in advance…

But really the best solution to this whole secret dilemma, and to keep me from hating you or, probably more likely, you from hating me, is to just not tell me, or stop keeping secrets. They’re ridiculous! Kind of the emotional swings of this post. Whoa… (As a sidenote, that probably happened because I got really frustrated at you for being a jerkface for no apparent reason and then had to compensate by getting really, really excited for the surprise party you are not actually throwing.)

Although if you are secretly a superhero or part of a secret crime fighting league, that’s awesome. Keep doing that.

Everyday Adventures...

So, I’m going to try and start doing this again. It’s been about two years… or more. I think I tried to update this when I was in Buenos Aires and kind of failed once BsAs began to feel like home. So here it goes again. Maybe someone will stumble across this and it will make them happy. In any case, have you ever noticed how life becomes more exciting when you are writing about it?
Also, have you noticed how whenever you sit by yourself, people feel the need to crowd in the spaces around you even though there are plenty of empty seats elsewhere? Perhaps not the best thought for somebody whose Halloween costume is going to be a ray of sunshine, but what can I say? Someone has to be overly critical. Maybe I just need to listen to happier music while writing this. So, Happy Halloween! I hope your costumes are more awesome than mine, especially since I just came up with the idea last night. I, also, hope everyone is keeping a running tally of how many Lady Gaga-s they see.
Right now, both my sister and I are in the middle of the job search. Which for me is always kind of fun. Think about all the things in the world that you could do!!! Halloween is also awesome for that – you can be anything!!! The other day, my sister told me that she was going to be a firefighter; and, while I thought that was a bit off the radar for what types of jobs she would want to be doing, especially considering the management consulting interviews she’s been going through, I was fully prepared to support her in whatever endeavor she was going to undertake. Then I realized she meant her Halloween costume… My immediate thought after that was but what if there is fire?!?!? She won’t know what to do! [Speaking of firefighters, right now there is a girl behind me on the train wearing a very short dress with reflectors and fire department badges on it. I hope no one goes running to her when there is a fire because it’s highly doubtful that she’d be able to do anything about it in those heels. (Also, have you ever noticed how women who shouldn’t be wearing heels with short dresses and skirts always do? Tone those legs, ladies! )]

Then again, going through these management consulting interviews is supposed to teach you how to deal with any situation. I went through them too… Every overachieving undergraduate dresses up in the only semi-professional wear that they own and then walks into a large conference hall with at least 1,000 other overachieving undergraduates, who, like you, have never done ANYTHING before.(Well, maybe they have, but I am highly doubtful. The working world was quite a shock after my 6-month vacation from 4 years of Art History… And I guess that’s what I mean by not doing ANYTHING!!!!) Then, you compete for the attention of an overpaid employee who is probably about 5 years older than you, but you feel SO YOUNG and inexperienced, which of course you are. After all the clawing and scratching just to get someone’s card so that you can write them a thank you note that they will not even read, you enter yet another part of the system where you put your resume and coverletter onto said colleges website. I found out the other day that they don’t even READ the coverletters. So, then, if you finally get an interview, you go into generic hotel for breakfast of not fresh fruit and yogurt and coffee, one of which you will spill on your blouse and, yes, it will leave a stain. And then, you go into one hotel room with one of said intimidating consultant peers. And they give you a situation you have never even had to think about before, unless you studied for the case interview! (And really, who studies for these things. I didn’t really even study for my Art History exams.) Not only are you expected to have a firm grip of the fine line between the theoretical business world and the real business world, you are expected to do math. (And this was the day when I cursed my calculus teacher for telling me that one would only use calculus in the future to build calculators… I will never ever build a calculator, which he aptly also pointed out.)
Aside from the math, management consulting interviews are a lot like a Halloween party. I mean, what do you say when approached by a bunch of purple grapes? “I always liked the green ones better. Especially if they are frozen.” Plus, once you add in the alcohol, and dancing with rubix cubs and life-sized sperm, you better be prepared for any situation… Much like a management consulting interview, Halloween means that all the rules of normalcy and familiarity get tossed out the window. It’s too bad we only give ourselves one day a year to partake in these sorts of activities. And on that note, there are too many drunk girls in booty shorts on the train now to continue this post. So Happy Halloween everyone, do something that you wouldn’t normally do.
Also, Go Giants!

My neighborhood in BsAs apparently used to be the red light district. I guess that means that catcalls are currently at a minimum in the area. But the remnants of the era are still there. All around Godoy Cruz, which is four blocks from my house, there are numerous albuerges transitorios, or rent-by-the-hour hotels. Which can be an incredibly useful thing if you’re 32, still living with your parents and trying to get in your coworker’s pants (which is basically just another way of saying you’re Argentine, or Chilean for that matter).
Anyways, the point is the area around Godoy Cruz is no longer the red light district and all of these albureges transitorios have been shut down or bought out by developers looking to put in high-rise apartments in gentrified Palermo. Basically at every hour, constructions projects are going on, getting started or finishing up.
Luckily, Buenos Aires does not let a cultural transition like this go to waste.
The cultural institutions of Buenos Aires decided to turn “former love hotel Pussy-Cats into a public art space” (and I got that straight from the brochure). Basically a construction company left one of these old hotels still standing and gave one room to an installation artist to decorate as they chose. The installation begins in a large warehouse room, where three walls are covered in artists’ canvases: one wall of photography, another of modern painting on canvas and the last was paintings on transparencies that were then layered on top of each other. Then (as directed by the people running the exhibition) you go up to the very top floor and wander down.
These rooms are so weird. Like really weird. One room was covered in photos of Marilyn Monroe and JFK and phrases like “he loves me, he loves me not” written in lipstick. There was a room where the bathtub was filled with dirt and a tree was bursting through the middle of my bed. There was a room playing childrens’ music with stickers of Disney princesses on the walls. Meanwhile, each bed was made with sheets and pillowcases that said “Pussycat hotel” with the logo emblazoned beneath.
The final room was the video art room. The seats available for watching the film were 8 beds on which you can recline and look up at the screens which were showing everything from silent comedic-murder mystery montages to a film explaining why you should pick up your dog’s poop when you take it for a walk, a lesson BsAs is still learning.
My favorite part by far though, was that after wandering through this absolutely stellar, grotesque and spectacular exhibition, you enter a the show room for what the rooms of this new high-rise apartment building will look like. In other words, you leave the dark twisting maze of corridors and rooms where techno music has been blasting and you enter the pristine, neatly arranged dining room exhibition with its finished wood floors and polished counters while the soothing sounds of elevator music spread across the room. Kind of makes you wish that the red light district was still there.

Las Bombas del Tiempo

Buenos Aires is beautiful in the evenings. Especially now when it’s turning into summer. In the evening, you can remember that a world outside of Buenos Aires actually exists. The light changes and you start to notice the sky and the cloud, and no matter how busy and filled with traffic the streets are, everything seems to stop.
I’ve just finished my English-teaching course. Which turned out to be better than I expected it to be and now it seems like I’ll get placed in a job somewhere in Buenos Aires which would be good. Of course, that schedule depends on English lessons to Ashoka fellows, which definitely goes in the stellar category. Finalmente, the other day, I heard about a group that puts on educational plays in English and then trains you to sing and dance and takes you on tour around South America and Spain! Yay random skills and weird theater folk!
On the note of awesome things in South America, Las Bombas del tiempo rock my world. A group of Argentine-Brazilian percussionists put on a cheap (10 pesos) show every Monday night en Ciudad Cultural Konex, basically an awesome warehouse like performing space. Las Bombas plays in a covered patio with concrete pillars coming down everywhere. Now, I know you’re probably thinking, yeah drum circle, whatevs-. But these guys make freakin percussion orchestra a profession!
At seven (keep in mind this is an Argentine seven, so it’s more like 7:30), the warm-up group or best drum circle you’ve ever heard begins to practice. At eight, about 20 dudes and 1 chick, all decked out in red and black jerseys (with their names on the back!) and track pants come out and play their hearts out for two hours. Which is a pretty intense feat. There are 3 conductors who lead the group (but only one conducts at a time) and all of them manage to create a completely different kickass rager.
Of course it probably helps that most of the crowd is far gone by the end of the show. A beer means 10 pesos for a liter of Quillmes poured into a large plastic cup (and they sell rum and coke and similar tragos in the same sized liter-glass). Meanwhile, everyone is lighting up despite the prohibido fumar signs spattered across the space. Of course, there’s a crazy dance party just waiting to happen… So, you join in and dance like the world is about to end tomorrow.
On top of that, everyone is there. There are dudes who are seventy checking out the practice drumming (not in a creepy way) from seven to eight. There are five year olds there with their parents, there are preppies and hipsters, some strange mixing of a frat party and a reggae fest, a ton of foreigners. It’s like a giant world party. Of course, Las Bombas ends early for Argentine time (at 10 ~ 10.30ish). When it’s over, the crowd spills out onto the street and the street vendors take advantage of the ravenous and exhausted leftover excuses for human beings by offering delicious panes rellenos for only 5 pesos. At which point, everyone who has energy scours the street for an open bar and I wander home feeling glorious and a little bit fuzzy with the concept of reality and crawl into bed.

Holy guacamole!

Another tired Saturday. It’s a little rainy and cloudy down here, but that makes it refreshing and a good excuse to hole up in a café, like right now. Right on the corner of Ravignani y Paraguay, where I live, there’s this funky old café that’s called Café-Bar Montecarlo that for the most part plays mellow good music, like Feist right now and has a beautiful old bar decorated in red leather and wood and a camero who wears a suit and a nice selection of whisky, bourbon and gin behind the counter. The tables all have beautifully carved legs and the chairs are those funky old ones made of red leather and wood. Wainscoating halfway up the wall, checkerboard tiled floor, mirrors lining the walls, so I can stare at myself as I write.
My class has been going pretty well; it’s kind of interesting to be able to design lessons, it’s actually pretty fun, though putting the lessons into practice sometimes hits a few bumps in the road. I go to class Mondays-Wednesdays from 10-5 and talk about everything from how to get students motivated to how to explain Conditional 3 to people, which is used to express regret, without making a depressing class. My classmates include 7 American girls, 1 New Zealand girl, one girl from Manchester, an Argentine-Israeli and a kid from Australia. We make quite an interesting bunch on occasion, a music/dance-obsessed, Argentine-culture-seeking group of self designated ex-pats. Half of the kids are staying here after the course is over (yay us!) and the other half is heading back to US or continuing on with their travels shortly after the course finishes.
Thanks to class and the nonstop activity of BsAs in general, I’ve had (present perfect: have/has + the past participle) a nonstop week. In other words, pretty fucking amazing. Last week, I spent time at a plastic Jesus theme park, a Boca game, Brazilian/Argentine drum troupe, milonga close to home, and salsa dancing. Yeah, like I said fucking amazing.
I think the strangest thing I’ve done yet was by far the Jesus theme-park. It’s not like there were rides and roller-coasters that you go on. It’s more like a themed-park where everything is plastic. Even the palm trees are plastic and they grow in Buenos Aires (not plastic palm trees, real palm trees). Everything is like a giant cheap nativity scene. It goes through the creation story, all the Stations of the Cross and Judas betraying Jesus. There are a couple of plastic statues placed randomly about of men who look they are in utter pain or rage, don’t quite know what their deal is. You can file into theaters and watch a plastic reenactment of the nativity. Joseph moves his head up and down a couple of times and there’s a fog machine. Same with the last supper. I got to see Jesus get resurrected… twice. He only gets resurrected up to the waist so I don’t know if it really counts.
Jesus is located right across the street from the most popular club in town right now. This club is open until 10 or 11 am on Sunday mornings. So ideally, you would go rage to techno and do drugs you’ve never heard of at Pachá and then head to see Jesus in the morning. Really, he gets resurrected every hour on the hour, so you don’t have to wait around very long.
I also made myself dinner the other night using the oven. Unfortunately, I still don’t know how to turn the oven on. Es todo ahora. besos

oh my d

brazilian drummers.
life is stellar.

To be Argentine

Just taking a moment to appreciate the awesomeness of Nick Cave. If Heidi were still around, she’d tell me that he was Australian. Therefore Australia is as awesome as Nick Cave. Obvi-po. But let’s not head off on tangents before we even get started.
Speaking of countries that begin with A and things that make them awesome, I think truly the most Argentine thing I’ve done so far is head to La Rural. La Rural is like every county fair you’ve been to with really, really large tractors. Aside from their tractors, La Rural celebrates everything else from the Pampas and really anywhere outside of Buenos Aires. There are cows, chickens, pigs, artesanal foods, bulls, horses, turkeys, goats, and gauchos and more tractors, just to give you a sampling of some of the amazing things we came across.
La Rural is crawling with people. Everyone goes: parents, kids, preppies, grunge kids, hipsters, there is no one you will not run into. It’s like the entire country comes together in Buenos Aires to celebrate the less chic, homey-er aspects of Argentina, which is so strange when BsAs prides itself on its culture and fashionista reputation. It’s kind of nice to see a bunch of people who come together to celebrate each other, even though their lives can be so completely different.
La Rural is like a theme park for the country. Inside, not only will you find the crowds (and the lines -- dude, people line up for their specialty dulce de leche), but there shops that sell “gaucho” clothing (we’ll get into that in a minute). There was one American Apparel type set up, except instead of American Apparel it was definitely sporting the farm-wear aesthetic. The small concession stands sell alfajores (imagine an ice cream sandwich with dulce de leche instead of ice cream), milenesas (hotdogs), hamburguesa completas (self-explanatory), and café. As a side note, this is not Nescafé, which their Chilean neighbors would offer. No, this is really coffee, espresso machine coffee. On these rickety tables they will pull out a heavy duty espresso machine to offer the quality you deserve in a decent cup of espresso. With the selection of meats at these stands, you can only imagine why the animals at La Rural look none to happy.
But the real attraction of La Rural (I think) are the gauchos themselves. It’s like you’ve stepped into a different universe, a different time period. They wear these sort of newsboy-caps that appear to come in burgundy, navy and black. Then, they wear these hardcore, almost motorcycle, leather jackets, although they ride horses, not motorcycles. The jackets cover flow-y white shirts. Then, they wear something that must be like typical horseman pants, only I don’t know anything about that so they just like strange parachute pants to me. The gauchos sit in the stables, tending to their horses, drinking maté, and chatting with each other. Truthfully, it’s a little intimidating. Also, aside from the fully grown gauchos, there are the minigauchos, who look much, much younger, but may just be my age. When the gauchos aren’t drinking mate and simply looking badass, I think they just ride their horses around in circles and are commended for their technique and such. But like I said, I don’t really know about these things.
In the multitudes of other news I failed to report, I turned 22, saw Bright Eyes, went to Uruguay, got my haircut, am living with an Italian man named Fabio who likes to cook, went to a puerta cerrada restaurant, headed to my first milonga, had a mini PA reunion, went to the most amazing jazz club last night, started class and have spent the majority of my time with folks of the European persuasion. All in all, it’s been quite lovely. Hopefully, these will be more frequent now. ¡Ciao amantes!