Buenos Aires, You're Crazy

Here's a list of the most bizarre things I have seen during my time in Buenos Aires, most of them witnessed over the past couple weeks. It is stuff like this that makes me love cities--though I must say that all this tops most of the absurdity I've seen in New York.

1. A very old man (I'm guessing in his mid 80s) walking across a busy street at a snail's pace, on hunched over on a cane--and wearing a bubblegum-pink t-shirt with the words "Boogie Nights" printed across his chest.

2. A homeless man taking a bath--in a stream of water that was flowing from a little door in the side of a building, in the side of a building right next to two very popular, trendy restaurants in one of the nicest neighborhoods of the city.

3. A bus driver stopping, mid-route, mid-block, to hop out of the bus and run to the nearest kiosk, from which he purchased snacks (Cokes and Lays potato chips, the manna of Buenos Aires) to distribute to his entire family--wife and three kids--who were also riding the bus.

4. While waiting for a bus on Cabildo, a major thoroughfare, at about 12 AM on a Wednesday morning, I saw an odd vehicle approaching from a distance. It looked like some kind of weirdly shaped truck (I assumed it had something to do with sanitation) but as it got closer I could see a string of blinking lights, which seemed inappropriate for public works. Then it got closer and I could hear the party music, and then even closer and I realized that it was a small bus in the shape of a riverboat. Inside, women scantily clad in sailor costumes (bare midriffs, of course) were standing on a table and dancing with Saturday night fever.

5. I walked past a McDonald's on Santa Fe, another major thoroughfare, on maybe a Friday afternoon. At the edge of the sidewalk, on a tarp, a team of females in, again, scanty outfits--these ones covered in the McDonald's logo--were peforming a synchronized dance to peppy pop music. Let's just say their hearts weren't really in it.

6. I was on a bus one day and happened to glance out of the window when it stopped a light. To my left I saw a macho-looking guy on a motorcycle, also stopped at the light. He was wearing a backpack backwards--that is to say, on his chest instead of his back. He looked down at it and a little head popped out of it--a tiny, fluffy lap dog. He kissed it on the mouth until the light changed, at which point he revved his engine and zoomed away.

None of these things, however, top what Annie and I were so lucky to be privy to during one of our first weeks here:

7. At probably about 1 or 2 am, a car came roaring down Santa Fe, blaring music. As it passed, we caught sight of the trunk: it was wide open and cradling a completely naked man, words scrawled all over his chest, balloons tied around his neck, screaming wildly at the top of his lungs. Unbeatable--Feliz Cumpleanos to him, if he is still alive.

Dispatch

Here's a little "dispatch" I wrote for The Blue & White, Columbia's oldest undergraduate magazine, for which I was, before I fled the country, an editor. It was cut down for the magazine for lack of space: here's the longer version.

Argentina

I am already thinking about the things I will miss. I guess I'm sort of ready to go home: I've been in South America since May and the things I miss about home--my grandparents, bagels, Law & Order: SVU marathons--are starting to gnaw at me. It doesn't help that my body, accustomed to 21 years of a crisp, chilly autumnal November, is totally disoriented by the intense, impending Argentine summer, which is beautiful but feels misplaced, almost artificial. I miss fall.

The things I will miss about Buenos Aires mostly involve food. Milanesa: beef pounded thin, battered in egg and breadcrumbs, then both fried and baked. My host family eats it once a week, served cold with just a salad of lettuce and tomatoes. Empanadas, which can be purchased on just about any block of the city, although the style and quality can differ greatly. I prefer baked over fried, filled with chopped meat, hard-boiled egg, and olives, or sweet corn. And then there are the steaks. It's true what they say about Argentina: beef is what's for dinner. There might be nothing so tantalizing as the smell of thick cuts of red meat roasting over hot charcoal in a parrilla, or grill, nothing so satisfying as each juicy bite of my favorite meat-centered meal: ojo de bife, or ribeye, accompanied by French fries or squash puree and washed down with a great Malbec.

I will miss sitting in cafés for hours in the afternoon, shooting the breeze with my friend Annie, who graduated in May and joined the growing trend of moving down here after college to teach English and learn Spanish. The wait staff will never drop the check before you ask for it, an invitation to linger over coffee--always espresso, sometimes cut with a splash of steamed milk--and medialunas, which are modified croissants, sticky with a sweet glaze. This leisurely, relaxed manner is the way of life here, and the primary thing I wish I could bring home with me. Buenos Aires boasts a vibrant energy, maintained around the clock, but it lacks the sense of nagging urgency that can drive New Yorkers to madness.

I notice this most in school. My classes at a small film university are challenging, but if a student rolls in an hour late to a two-hour class, which is a common occurrence, no one bats an eye. "Hey, how are you?" the professor might say, interrupting his lecture. There's no shame in slacking off: when questioned about their progress on the readings or the films, students answer honestly, knowing that they will be only gently scolded, not chastised or humiliated, for falling behind. No one's defending the efficiency of this system, but no one's jumping off the roofs of any buildings, either.

I can't see this attitude catching on at Columbia, but I will take home--in addition to as much dulce de leche as can fit in my suitcase--a virtue I could never quite master before living here: patience. I used to think the lines at Duane Reade were bad; then I met Farmacity, the Buenos Aires equivalent. I've slowed my speedy pace when walking down a busy, crowded street--Argentines are more concerned with smelling the flowers than getting to their next destination. And why wouldn't they be, when chronic lateness isn't considered a personality flaw?

But though I've often daydreamed of reincarnation as an Argentine schoolgirl--effortlessly stylish in a short plaid skirt and Converse high tops, v-neck sweater slung carelessly around my shoulders, waist-length hair swept up in a faux-silk flower--the most unexpected thing I will take home is pride in being an American. I have never felt as patriotic as I do living here. Argentines may have loathed our politics before Election Day, and they think it's really weird that we eat eggs for breakfast, but when it comes to our language, our constitution, and, most noticeably, our culture (high and low), they're hard pressed to deny their admiration. The world is enormous, and my semester abroad has done nothing if not fueled my desire to explore it, but I feel lucky to be returning to the U.S. in January. There's no place I'd rather call home.

- HGBG