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
