Hi everybody,
I'd like to apologize for depriving you of your bi-weekly dose of Argentine mishaps, but apparently they do take finals here. Actually, as much as I like to joke about the school, it got hard as hell! I'm about halfway through the 30 pages I have to write for all my classes. I'd much rather write this.
I don't really have much to write about, since I've been holed up in an internet cafe all week, but I'm slowly regaining my social skills and should have something interesting to tell you all soon.
M
Monday, October 31, 2005
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Beach Day!!!
I just got back from a little beach town a few hours outside of Buenos Aires, and I'm sorry to say that I've nothing to report. No condecending government employees, no crazy haircuts, and no insane futból fans. Just a very pleasing weekend in a town very similar to San Diego.
Well, there was a casino, and anyone remotely familiar with my gambling history should know how that ended. To save what cash I had remaining, I decided to cook dinner at the hostel. For everyone. I've had plenty of ambitious ideas before, but cooking dinner for a dozen people is up there with the best of them. I figured that a stir-fry couldn't be much harder than my usual PB&J. It was, but the meal turned out to be remarkably edible.
The town I was in, Mar Del Plata, will host the Summit of the Americas in a few weeks. Besides making it very difficult to find a room, this gave the town a very politically charged feel. I was asked about my thoughts by anyone who knew I was from the US, and I was even interviewed for a documentary. [Note: I've been staring at the computer screen for 20 minutes trying to come up with some joke incorporating Miguel Moore, because I think that's too good of a pun to waste, but I'm really tired. Any suggestions are welcome.]
I've got a busy week of final papers ahead of me, but I'll update you all as soon as I can.
M
Well, there was a casino, and anyone remotely familiar with my gambling history should know how that ended. To save what cash I had remaining, I decided to cook dinner at the hostel. For everyone. I've had plenty of ambitious ideas before, but cooking dinner for a dozen people is up there with the best of them. I figured that a stir-fry couldn't be much harder than my usual PB&J. It was, but the meal turned out to be remarkably edible.
The town I was in, Mar Del Plata, will host the Summit of the Americas in a few weeks. Besides making it very difficult to find a room, this gave the town a very politically charged feel. I was asked about my thoughts by anyone who knew I was from the US, and I was even interviewed for a documentary. [Note: I've been staring at the computer screen for 20 minutes trying to come up with some joke incorporating Miguel Moore, because I think that's too good of a pun to waste, but I'm really tired. Any suggestions are welcome.]
I've got a busy week of final papers ahead of me, but I'll update you all as soon as I can.
M
Sunday, October 16, 2005
El Super Bowl
Wow.
I've been in tornadoes. I've been in earthquakes. None of them comes close to the pulsing of a 10 story stadium to the beat of almost a hundred thousand people. Well, not really people, futbol fans. They're a different breed.
Until recently, I've never really been too into soccer. To be honest, my midwestern upbringing kind of biased me against the sport. Boys played football, girls played futbol. The truth is, though, that I've never been surrounded by more people that could kick my ass. Easily. It didn't hurt that, no surprise, I went about everything wrong.
First of all, every local that knew I was going to the game told me two things. 1)Be careful. 2)Don't sit in "el popular". The general admission section has a notorious reputation, and it's even worse for big games. Guess where my ticket was. Knowing that we could be heading towards certain doom, my friends and I arrived two hours before the game started, to get there in time to find some good "seats". By the time we got there, the B team was playing and unnecessarily warming up the crowd. There was a decent amount of people, but we could still pick which general area we sat in. We chose a relatively free area that the locals seemed to be avoiding. We assumed it was because it was by a wall, and therefore lame. We were wrong. As soon as we got situated, we felt the beating of several drums. It was The Superfans.
Now, I'd better clarify my word choice here, because my buddies in high school used to call themselves The Superfans. They had a cardboard "D" and fence that they'd bring to our basketball games. Here, they'd get the shit kicked out of them. By the grandmas.
The Argentine Superfan has no more than 7 teeth (a strict requirement), Adidas shoes (equally worn down from chasing balls and foreigners), several accessories that I'll get to in a bit, and only the minimum amount of clothing required by law. He is a direct descendant of the Colosseum fans that would settle for nothing less than a visit from the lions. He has seen death and victory, and would choose either one over a loss. He is barely human.
The pack entered from the tunnel that we were using as a safety wall. There were enough to fill Yankee Stadium, and they engulfed us like hyenas on a wounded deer. With military efficiency, they proceeded unrolling banners that could cover a football field. Some were run across the stands as a type of patriotic roof, others were strung from the top to the field and acted as express transports for people and supplies. Once the decorations were in place (this description would warrant a stabbing according to Superlaw), they started distributing the paper rolls. A small forest's worth of cash register rolls were thrown (hard) at every man, woman, and child in reach. They were courteous enough to send several offerings my way.
Just a little reminder: the game hasn't even started yet.
The crowd was given strict instructions to wait until the team emerged (with several violent reminders to those who jumped the gun). When the players emerged, what little bit of the field I could see through the banners was covered with a sea of white. The stadium erupted with cheers, and Helen Keller would have had to cover her ears.
Once the game got started, nothing else mattered. There wasn't a jumbotron, there weren't cheerleaders, there wasn't even music. Just futbol. There were, however, soda hawkers, and they deserve special mention. When Coke cadets graduate from stadium boot camp, only the most talented even have a chance at getting into the Latin American soccer scene.
I, however, couldn't see shit. As mentioned, I was right behind some guys that were a little excited. They stood on the railings in front of us so that I was forced to look between legs and banners to even get a glimpse of the action. But fighting for one's life sure passes the time. The first half ended pretty quickly, and we snuck out as quietly as possible the first chance we got. We went to the outermost fringe of el popular to get some semblance of civility. What I could see was actually pretty good soccer. The game ended with the anti-climatic score of 0-0, exemplifying my only problem with the sport, their acceptance with a tie. Oh well, at least it's another story!
M
I've been in tornadoes. I've been in earthquakes. None of them comes close to the pulsing of a 10 story stadium to the beat of almost a hundred thousand people. Well, not really people, futbol fans. They're a different breed.
Until recently, I've never really been too into soccer. To be honest, my midwestern upbringing kind of biased me against the sport. Boys played football, girls played futbol. The truth is, though, that I've never been surrounded by more people that could kick my ass. Easily. It didn't hurt that, no surprise, I went about everything wrong.
First of all, every local that knew I was going to the game told me two things. 1)Be careful. 2)Don't sit in "el popular". The general admission section has a notorious reputation, and it's even worse for big games. Guess where my ticket was. Knowing that we could be heading towards certain doom, my friends and I arrived two hours before the game started, to get there in time to find some good "seats". By the time we got there, the B team was playing and unnecessarily warming up the crowd. There was a decent amount of people, but we could still pick which general area we sat in. We chose a relatively free area that the locals seemed to be avoiding. We assumed it was because it was by a wall, and therefore lame. We were wrong. As soon as we got situated, we felt the beating of several drums. It was The Superfans.
Now, I'd better clarify my word choice here, because my buddies in high school used to call themselves The Superfans. They had a cardboard "D" and fence that they'd bring to our basketball games. Here, they'd get the shit kicked out of them. By the grandmas.
The Argentine Superfan has no more than 7 teeth (a strict requirement), Adidas shoes (equally worn down from chasing balls and foreigners), several accessories that I'll get to in a bit, and only the minimum amount of clothing required by law. He is a direct descendant of the Colosseum fans that would settle for nothing less than a visit from the lions. He has seen death and victory, and would choose either one over a loss. He is barely human.
The pack entered from the tunnel that we were using as a safety wall. There were enough to fill Yankee Stadium, and they engulfed us like hyenas on a wounded deer. With military efficiency, they proceeded unrolling banners that could cover a football field. Some were run across the stands as a type of patriotic roof, others were strung from the top to the field and acted as express transports for people and supplies. Once the decorations were in place (this description would warrant a stabbing according to Superlaw), they started distributing the paper rolls. A small forest's worth of cash register rolls were thrown (hard) at every man, woman, and child in reach. They were courteous enough to send several offerings my way.
Just a little reminder: the game hasn't even started yet.
The crowd was given strict instructions to wait until the team emerged (with several violent reminders to those who jumped the gun). When the players emerged, what little bit of the field I could see through the banners was covered with a sea of white. The stadium erupted with cheers, and Helen Keller would have had to cover her ears.
Once the game got started, nothing else mattered. There wasn't a jumbotron, there weren't cheerleaders, there wasn't even music. Just futbol. There were, however, soda hawkers, and they deserve special mention. When Coke cadets graduate from stadium boot camp, only the most talented even have a chance at getting into the Latin American soccer scene.
I, however, couldn't see shit. As mentioned, I was right behind some guys that were a little excited. They stood on the railings in front of us so that I was forced to look between legs and banners to even get a glimpse of the action. But fighting for one's life sure passes the time. The first half ended pretty quickly, and we snuck out as quietly as possible the first chance we got. We went to the outermost fringe of el popular to get some semblance of civility. What I could see was actually pretty good soccer. The game ended with the anti-climatic score of 0-0, exemplifying my only problem with the sport, their acceptance with a tie. Oh well, at least it's another story!
M
Friday, October 14, 2005
Who needs sleep, anyway?
So, this Sunday is the biggest futbol game of the year, pretty much El Super Bowl around here. The game's between the two biggest teams in the country, and it's almost a religious affair. The futbol season is one big tournament, so every game counts like it's the playoffs. This one's an especially big deal, and I hear that it's quite a spectacle.
Tickets to this game are just about impossible to get, but they release them a little bit differently than in the US, so you don't need to get them years ahead of time. The assigned seats were offered a few weeks ago, and got nabbed up quick. There are several thousand standing room only tickets that get distributed through various channels (like at the opposing team's stadium, by mail to club members, etc.), but never online or anything. If you want a ticket, you have to work for it. This morning, 4000 standing room tickets were released (the only ones offered to the public, and the last available spots anywhere in the stadium). I knew this would be too good to miss.
Yesterday afternoon, some friends and I were talking about camping out at the stadium to get our tickets, but no solid plans were made. Around 1:00am, I called the only one who's phone number I knew. No answer. [This particular group of North Americans all live in a dormitory, the alternative to a homestay. It's kind of like a brewery, but with more alcohol. Needless to say, they're not really here for the language. But they are fun!] So, I called again in a bit; my friend picked up and once I heard the noise in the back ground, I knew this was going to be tough. "Woooo!!!! Myles!!!!! Yeah, so, like, someone bought a few liters, and we're having a dorm party." You don't say. I reminded her about the game, and she said she'd call me in a bit. Now, I just had to keep myself awake.
The minutes pass like hours, and I ran out of crosswords. I decided to go over to the stadium around 3, to see how busy it was. Even then, there was a pretty decent sized pack of people forming. Around 4:30, I gave up on her and succumbed to my sleepiness. I was pissed, but too tired to put up much of a fight. But just as I was falling asleep, beep-beep, she calls. I told her that I was down for the count and to go ahead without me. I went to bed, but I couldn't fall asleep because of the ass kicking Bad Myles was giving Good Myles. "Well, I could do homework tomorrow...You pansie, how many riotus soccer games will you get the chance to go to...but I'm so tired..." Bad Myles won.
I called my friend and told her that I'd meet them at the stadium. After a minor wrong-bus scare, I found my way back to the stadium, and the crowd was huge. Thankfully, my friends beat the big after-club rush, so I hopped in line with them, to the undoubted irritation of several porteños, but nobody said anything, I was hardy the first. Of course, my friends were trashed, so us gringos stood out like, well, like 5 Americans at a soccer game. By 6:00, we were all nestled in our spots watching the sun come up over River Plate Stadium.
Well, some of us saw it.
Around 8:00, things atarted getting interesting. About every twenty minutes, or so, there'd be some murmuring in the crowd, and all of the sudden, everybody would stand up and start running. All we ended up doing was packing more and more people into an already small space, but at least it offered some excitement. The police showed up about then, too, in full riot gear, no less. Every third one had what was more of a portable cannon than a shotgun, so nothing serious broke out, but every now and then, we'd see them go into the crowd and pull out a few drunks. This sobered up my friends quite well.
The stadium was conveniently located right next to a pedestrian overpass, so there was quite a bit of heckling to keep me entertained. Most of it was harmless whistling at the girls that walked by, but when a fan for the other team walked by, I learned about 8000 new insults in Spanish.
At 9:30, the gates opened, and mass chaos broke out. People were running at full sprint, although the pack was way too dense for anyone to move. Saying that it was the worst crowd control that I've ever seen implies that there was some degree of crowd control. But after about 2 hours of pushing--and getting pushed--through the crowd, I finally got to the ticket counter. I asked them who was playing, they didn't find it funny. But I got a ticket. As I was walking out to regroup with my friends, I was offered several times more than what I paid ($5), but no amount of money could have convinced me. I worked my ass off for that ticket, and I'm going to the game!
I got home at 11:00am, and with the exception of the time taken to write this positing, I plan on sleeping straight up to the game. I'll let you all know how it goes, but if the ticket line was any indication, it should be quite a story!
M
Tickets to this game are just about impossible to get, but they release them a little bit differently than in the US, so you don't need to get them years ahead of time. The assigned seats were offered a few weeks ago, and got nabbed up quick. There are several thousand standing room only tickets that get distributed through various channels (like at the opposing team's stadium, by mail to club members, etc.), but never online or anything. If you want a ticket, you have to work for it. This morning, 4000 standing room tickets were released (the only ones offered to the public, and the last available spots anywhere in the stadium). I knew this would be too good to miss.
Yesterday afternoon, some friends and I were talking about camping out at the stadium to get our tickets, but no solid plans were made. Around 1:00am, I called the only one who's phone number I knew. No answer. [This particular group of North Americans all live in a dormitory, the alternative to a homestay. It's kind of like a brewery, but with more alcohol. Needless to say, they're not really here for the language. But they are fun!] So, I called again in a bit; my friend picked up and once I heard the noise in the back ground, I knew this was going to be tough. "Woooo!!!! Myles!!!!! Yeah, so, like, someone bought a few liters, and we're having a dorm party." You don't say. I reminded her about the game, and she said she'd call me in a bit. Now, I just had to keep myself awake.
The minutes pass like hours, and I ran out of crosswords. I decided to go over to the stadium around 3, to see how busy it was. Even then, there was a pretty decent sized pack of people forming. Around 4:30, I gave up on her and succumbed to my sleepiness. I was pissed, but too tired to put up much of a fight. But just as I was falling asleep, beep-beep, she calls. I told her that I was down for the count and to go ahead without me. I went to bed, but I couldn't fall asleep because of the ass kicking Bad Myles was giving Good Myles. "Well, I could do homework tomorrow...You pansie, how many riotus soccer games will you get the chance to go to...but I'm so tired..." Bad Myles won.
I called my friend and told her that I'd meet them at the stadium. After a minor wrong-bus scare, I found my way back to the stadium, and the crowd was huge. Thankfully, my friends beat the big after-club rush, so I hopped in line with them, to the undoubted irritation of several porteños, but nobody said anything, I was hardy the first. Of course, my friends were trashed, so us gringos stood out like, well, like 5 Americans at a soccer game. By 6:00, we were all nestled in our spots watching the sun come up over River Plate Stadium.
Well, some of us saw it.
Around 8:00, things atarted getting interesting. About every twenty minutes, or so, there'd be some murmuring in the crowd, and all of the sudden, everybody would stand up and start running. All we ended up doing was packing more and more people into an already small space, but at least it offered some excitement. The police showed up about then, too, in full riot gear, no less. Every third one had what was more of a portable cannon than a shotgun, so nothing serious broke out, but every now and then, we'd see them go into the crowd and pull out a few drunks. This sobered up my friends quite well.
The stadium was conveniently located right next to a pedestrian overpass, so there was quite a bit of heckling to keep me entertained. Most of it was harmless whistling at the girls that walked by, but when a fan for the other team walked by, I learned about 8000 new insults in Spanish.
At 9:30, the gates opened, and mass chaos broke out. People were running at full sprint, although the pack was way too dense for anyone to move. Saying that it was the worst crowd control that I've ever seen implies that there was some degree of crowd control. But after about 2 hours of pushing--and getting pushed--through the crowd, I finally got to the ticket counter. I asked them who was playing, they didn't find it funny. But I got a ticket. As I was walking out to regroup with my friends, I was offered several times more than what I paid ($5), but no amount of money could have convinced me. I worked my ass off for that ticket, and I'm going to the game!
I got home at 11:00am, and with the exception of the time taken to write this positing, I plan on sleeping straight up to the game. I'll let you all know how it goes, but if the ticket line was any indication, it should be quite a story!
M
Saturday, October 08, 2005
What a night!
Working at a free health clinic in Mexico has provided me with countless experiences that I'd be hard pressed to find anywhere else: receptive patients, amazing food, latent tuberculosis. Well, the last one's kind of a bitch, but at least it's treatable, although the cure may be worse than the disease. For the last seven months, I've been taking a daily antibiotic that apparantly can do quite a number on my liver if I combine it with excess alcohol. (The definition of excess is, of course, generally dependant on how cheap it can be obtained.)
So how does any of this relate to last night? Well, losing my liver would be quite a pisser. And as such, I've been pretty picky with the nights that I go out, with the obvious exceptions of my first few epic weeks. I did however, decide to go out last night for the birthday of a friend of a friend of a friend. Here's how the night unfolded:
11:00pm - I received a text message from a friend with the address of the party we had talked about earlier that day. All Buenos Aires addresses have a street name followed by a number, no east or west. If a street runs the length of the city, its name changes as it crosses the center. If it doesn't, it's numbers start and stop at apparently random values. (At this point, is anybody surprised?) So, one number means one location. Unless the same street name exists in one of Buenos Aires' many suburbs (I think you know what's coming). The next three hours would have passed much smoother had I just called my friend to clarify, but student-traveler commandment #17 is: Thou shalt conservath thy cell minutes (even if that means sending a small fortune's worth of 10-cent messages). Who ever said religion makes sense?
11:10pm - I set off on a bus towards downtown, and felt the beginings of an intense I-really-gotta-pee sensation develop in my bladder. The latter event being severly compounded by the first, shock absorbers haven't quite caught on here.
12:10am - I got of the bus as close as I could get to my destination, but by now my bladder was screamming, "you'd better walk fast, dumbshit, I told you to go before we left."
12:15am - I arrived at LaValle 1498, as planned. Although the neighborhood didn't have quite the suburban feel that was described to me. I didn't care, as long as the place had a bathroom. I walked up to the building, and this is where things got interesting. Once I got close, I could see that the building didn't appear to have been occupied since the cold war, at least not by anything with less than 4 legs. In fact, the whole neighborhood had an erily empty feel. In my haste to find a toilet, I hadn't really noticed my surroundings, but I was in a place I really shouldn't have been. I sent a note to see where they were, and my friend told me to come up the 11th floor. In a fit of inginuity, I walked across the street and started counting windows, only nine. That's not right. Through a series of text messages, I realized that I was at the wrong LaValle, no surprise. But at least this address fiasco took my mind off having to pee. I noticed that the pain went away, and at first I thought, "great, my bladder probably just hit capacity and popped." Really, I did, I'm not quite as smart as you think I am. I then realized that a popped bladder would probably hurt more than having to pee, so I (no joke) felt my pants to make sure there wasn't any leakage. Don't worry, I was safe. Maybe I just didn't have to pee anymore.
12:18am - I was wrong. The pain came back at a level that would justify pissing myself on the spot. I couldn't quite run without making things worse, but I performed the clumsy piss-gallop that anyone who's put back a couple of big gulps knows firsthand.
12:25am - I arrived at McDonald's, the American embassy of cheap drinks and free bathrooms. Abroad, their signs read, "4 billion flushed."
12:26am - Unzip.
12:32am - Ahh, much better.
2:15am - After quite a long walk and bus ride, I arrived at the intersection where we were supposed to meet. With my two friends with me, I showed up to a house in which there wasn't a single person I knew. I wasn't too worried, though, Argentines are generally very social, and my Spanish is improving. We spent the next couple of hours chatting and playing ping-pong, only one of which was facilitated by the alcohol.
4:00am - Somewhere around the 30th time my ass was handed to me on the ping-pong table, there were murmurings of going out to a club. There was a time on this trip when that would have surprised me, but not anymore. The problem was, however, that there is only one thing harder than getting nine Argentines focused on one plan: doing that while they're drunk. I just took a backseat on this one and went to town on the pretzels until something developed.
4:45am - With a destination known and taxi called, we went outside and peed on all the neighbors' yards. I wasn't even drunk (really!), it's just not a big deal here. If I only would have known that a few hours ago!
5:15am - We entered a club that was actually very close to my house. After about half of us paid the cover, the other half decided they didn't like the way that place felt that night. No enough people. Here's a thought, perhaps they're sleeping. Thankfully, the bouncers, in a rare showing of humanity, gave us our money back. It didn't hurt that there were a few cute girls with us.
5:30am - We moved to another place, one just as close to my house. We all pay and enter, no problem, yet.
5:45am - No more than 15 minute after we enter (and pay $10), the house lights come one and the bar tender tells us that the place is closing. Us Americans, the hard asses that we are, jumped right up, but our Argentine friends started arguing with the guy, telling that no one told us they were about to close when we paid. So they get all animated, like Argentines do, and half the bar staff comes over, giving us to-go cups for our drinks, the works. No effect. A couple of cops came out of no where, and the locals start yelling at them that they're no better than private security. It's no secret that Latin American police officers are available to the highest bidder, but that's neither here nor there, I'm about to get sent to jail. Here we yankies are, like, "Ahem, cough cough, uh, arrest means deportation for us." So we, with the help of the Argentines that weren't too upset, dragged out the rest.
6:00am - A couple of the guys start asking where we shold go next, but I was way too wiped out to think of anything but home. I wasn't alone, but the other two Americans lived to far too walk. So my only links to the group took a cab home, leaving me with a group of wild natives that we're still iching for more. In my haste to break off before the next near-arrest, I said my goodbyes and took off without paying attention to the direction in which I was heading. Good thing there was pleny of sun light to see the signs!
6:30am - I got home and did a samurai-crawl to my room, so as to not wake up the rest of the family. Although, knowing them, they probably weren't even back yet! By that point, I had already passed the sleepiness hump and wasn't too tired, although I knew I would be the next day.
3:00pm - Yep, I was right.
M
So how does any of this relate to last night? Well, losing my liver would be quite a pisser. And as such, I've been pretty picky with the nights that I go out, with the obvious exceptions of my first few epic weeks. I did however, decide to go out last night for the birthday of a friend of a friend of a friend. Here's how the night unfolded:
11:00pm - I received a text message from a friend with the address of the party we had talked about earlier that day. All Buenos Aires addresses have a street name followed by a number, no east or west. If a street runs the length of the city, its name changes as it crosses the center. If it doesn't, it's numbers start and stop at apparently random values. (At this point, is anybody surprised?) So, one number means one location. Unless the same street name exists in one of Buenos Aires' many suburbs (I think you know what's coming). The next three hours would have passed much smoother had I just called my friend to clarify, but student-traveler commandment #17 is: Thou shalt conservath thy cell minutes (even if that means sending a small fortune's worth of 10-cent messages). Who ever said religion makes sense?
11:10pm - I set off on a bus towards downtown, and felt the beginings of an intense I-really-gotta-pee sensation develop in my bladder. The latter event being severly compounded by the first, shock absorbers haven't quite caught on here.
12:10am - I got of the bus as close as I could get to my destination, but by now my bladder was screamming, "you'd better walk fast, dumbshit, I told you to go before we left."
12:15am - I arrived at LaValle 1498, as planned. Although the neighborhood didn't have quite the suburban feel that was described to me. I didn't care, as long as the place had a bathroom. I walked up to the building, and this is where things got interesting. Once I got close, I could see that the building didn't appear to have been occupied since the cold war, at least not by anything with less than 4 legs. In fact, the whole neighborhood had an erily empty feel. In my haste to find a toilet, I hadn't really noticed my surroundings, but I was in a place I really shouldn't have been. I sent a note to see where they were, and my friend told me to come up the 11th floor. In a fit of inginuity, I walked across the street and started counting windows, only nine. That's not right. Through a series of text messages, I realized that I was at the wrong LaValle, no surprise. But at least this address fiasco took my mind off having to pee. I noticed that the pain went away, and at first I thought, "great, my bladder probably just hit capacity and popped." Really, I did, I'm not quite as smart as you think I am. I then realized that a popped bladder would probably hurt more than having to pee, so I (no joke) felt my pants to make sure there wasn't any leakage. Don't worry, I was safe. Maybe I just didn't have to pee anymore.
12:18am - I was wrong. The pain came back at a level that would justify pissing myself on the spot. I couldn't quite run without making things worse, but I performed the clumsy piss-gallop that anyone who's put back a couple of big gulps knows firsthand.
12:25am - I arrived at McDonald's, the American embassy of cheap drinks and free bathrooms. Abroad, their signs read, "4 billion flushed."
12:26am - Unzip.
12:32am - Ahh, much better.
2:15am - After quite a long walk and bus ride, I arrived at the intersection where we were supposed to meet. With my two friends with me, I showed up to a house in which there wasn't a single person I knew. I wasn't too worried, though, Argentines are generally very social, and my Spanish is improving. We spent the next couple of hours chatting and playing ping-pong, only one of which was facilitated by the alcohol.
4:00am - Somewhere around the 30th time my ass was handed to me on the ping-pong table, there were murmurings of going out to a club. There was a time on this trip when that would have surprised me, but not anymore. The problem was, however, that there is only one thing harder than getting nine Argentines focused on one plan: doing that while they're drunk. I just took a backseat on this one and went to town on the pretzels until something developed.
4:45am - With a destination known and taxi called, we went outside and peed on all the neighbors' yards. I wasn't even drunk (really!), it's just not a big deal here. If I only would have known that a few hours ago!
5:15am - We entered a club that was actually very close to my house. After about half of us paid the cover, the other half decided they didn't like the way that place felt that night. No enough people. Here's a thought, perhaps they're sleeping. Thankfully, the bouncers, in a rare showing of humanity, gave us our money back. It didn't hurt that there were a few cute girls with us.
5:30am - We moved to another place, one just as close to my house. We all pay and enter, no problem, yet.
5:45am - No more than 15 minute after we enter (and pay $10), the house lights come one and the bar tender tells us that the place is closing. Us Americans, the hard asses that we are, jumped right up, but our Argentine friends started arguing with the guy, telling that no one told us they were about to close when we paid. So they get all animated, like Argentines do, and half the bar staff comes over, giving us to-go cups for our drinks, the works. No effect. A couple of cops came out of no where, and the locals start yelling at them that they're no better than private security. It's no secret that Latin American police officers are available to the highest bidder, but that's neither here nor there, I'm about to get sent to jail. Here we yankies are, like, "Ahem, cough cough, uh, arrest means deportation for us." So we, with the help of the Argentines that weren't too upset, dragged out the rest.
6:00am - A couple of the guys start asking where we shold go next, but I was way too wiped out to think of anything but home. I wasn't alone, but the other two Americans lived to far too walk. So my only links to the group took a cab home, leaving me with a group of wild natives that we're still iching for more. In my haste to break off before the next near-arrest, I said my goodbyes and took off without paying attention to the direction in which I was heading. Good thing there was pleny of sun light to see the signs!
6:30am - I got home and did a samurai-crawl to my room, so as to not wake up the rest of the family. Although, knowing them, they probably weren't even back yet! By that point, I had already passed the sleepiness hump and wasn't too tired, although I knew I would be the next day.
3:00pm - Yep, I was right.
M
Saturday, October 01, 2005
City Slickers III
Hi all,
I know that I promised an ode to Buenos Aires, but that post is taking longer than I thought it would, and I want to tell you what I did today.
Well, as the title implies, the exchange program took all 40 (or so) of us metropolitan yuppies-in-training out to a dude ranch in the country. These are known here as "estancias", and this one was very livestock oriented, as are all the farms in the interior of Argentina.
The trip started after a grueling 6:30am wake up, followed by a bus ride out into the country. Needless to say, I didn't get to take in most of the trip, since I was finishing what I started at 2am. I'm no quitter. We eventually arrived in a place called New Holland, which, as the name implies is the remnants of a dutch settlement founded after WWII. It feels just like any other part of the farmlands, but many of the workers there can trace their roots back to the land of weed and honey.
We all ate a breakfast of delicious homemade bread, and then broke off to different activities. Horses were available, but only for ten people at a time. My enthusiasm got the best of me and I volunteered to be one of the first. For all comedic purposes, this was definitely the highlight of the day, although that's much easier to say now that I'm resting on a non-living item. During the adventure, I probably would have wet my pants, if I didn't fear upsetting the four-legged demon that I was sitting on. Where to begin...
Well, as I said, there were ten horses available in the first group, but there weren't too many people running to get in line--everyone else clearly knew something that I didn't--but I thought I'd give it a try. We were told to stay close, since the horses would be ready in a few minutes. An hour later (this is Argentina, after all), two very sun-worn, tough looking dudes mounted a couple of horses and galloped off to round up our rides. Apparently, cowboys don't die, they just move to Argentina. A few minutes later, John Wayne and Butch Cassidy returned, circling a pack of horses in a scene straight out of a beer commercial. At this point, I began wondering what the hell I got myself into. I didn't stop wondering that until I was back on my own two feet.
Señor Wayne came up to us and told us that these were actual, responsive horse that weren't like the kind we've ridden before. (Oh God, he thinks I've ridden a horse before.)
[Actually, for the sake of humor, I've omitted my few encounters of the four-legged kind, I'm really not an absolute novice. My equestrian career: 1) A few lessons in summer camp about 10 years ago (of which I remember nothing about), 2) A trip with my uncle and cousin on top of a rented horse that made a city bus driver look enthusiastic, and 3) the knowledge of how things turned out for Christopher Reeves, Genghis Khan, and just about everybody in Gone With the Wind. Not the best combination. With that out of the way, on with the story]
Our guides continued to ease our worries by telling us that a few of the horses never really responded well to training, and they should be handled by experienced riders. They asked if anyone knew how to ride a horse, and a few hands went up, but none of them belonged to me. He told a girl with some horseback experience that she'd have her hands full with the first horse he brought over. If the Trojans used an actual horse, this would be the one. As he was helping her up (and up, and up), he noticed me, and I knew what was coming. No, don't say it. "You," he said, pointing at me. Crap. "You should take this horse, it'll fit you better." Fit better? I won't be fitting too well in the tree he throws me into!
I got on it, relatively uneventfully, and we proceeded as a group though the surrounding forest. Well, they proceeded as a group. I had some problems keeping up. My horse didn't quite get the concept of a gradual turn, it had two modes: straight away, or a move that I called toilet-bowling. It was like a living tilt-a-whirl. I eventually caught up to the group only to find them stuck at a stream. There was a bridge a few meters away, and it seemed like the better option to most of the horses, but not mine. Of course. My horse (oblivious to any of my instructions given in last-ditch desperation) came to what felt like a full gallop, and perfectly cleared a 2 yard gap. I can't possibly convey that feeling in words (at least in polite company), but now I know what it feels like to be truly breathless. I wish I were joking. I was at once thrilled, bewildered, and poop-my-pants afraid. My horse (and everyone else within earshot) was lucky I couldn't find the breath to express myself. It really was an unreal experience.
The ride continued with a few more glitches and hijinks, but I've got to move on with the story. We came back to a lunch that I'm lucky wasn't served before the ride of doom. But it was absolutely delicious, at least until I started asking questions. Here's a sample of a few exchanges between my server and me (in Spanish, of course):
Me: Mmmm, this is delicious, what is it?
Server: Cow pituitary gland.
Me: Oh.
Me: Mmmm, this sausage tastes great, but why is the texture so different? What's in it, refried beans?
Server: No, congealed cow's blood.
Me: Aaackk, bleegggg, guurrff. Oh.
The rest of the afternoon actually passed in a surprisingly tranquil manner. I spent the first part of the afternoon scaling a mobile climbing wall that was set up on the grounds. After all, nothing says "relaxing day in the Argentine pampas" quite like clinging on to ceramic nipples for dear life. I also played in a great game of soccer which wouldn't be very funny at all if the field hadn't been littered with the biggest cow pies I've seen in my life. It was kind of like playing soccer in a mine field, although this one was just a little bit worse. Afterwards we played some volleyball, and although the court wasn't dotted with poo-bombs, was inhabited by several ostriches that were pretty reluctant to give up their stomping grounds.
The day ended up being very fun, and I've got quite a decent tan to show for it. I apologize about the length, but, as Tom Robbins says, the details make the story. If you don't know who he is, look him up, it's worth it. Talk to you all soon.
M
I know that I promised an ode to Buenos Aires, but that post is taking longer than I thought it would, and I want to tell you what I did today.
Well, as the title implies, the exchange program took all 40 (or so) of us metropolitan yuppies-in-training out to a dude ranch in the country. These are known here as "estancias", and this one was very livestock oriented, as are all the farms in the interior of Argentina.
The trip started after a grueling 6:30am wake up, followed by a bus ride out into the country. Needless to say, I didn't get to take in most of the trip, since I was finishing what I started at 2am. I'm no quitter. We eventually arrived in a place called New Holland, which, as the name implies is the remnants of a dutch settlement founded after WWII. It feels just like any other part of the farmlands, but many of the workers there can trace their roots back to the land of weed and honey.
We all ate a breakfast of delicious homemade bread, and then broke off to different activities. Horses were available, but only for ten people at a time. My enthusiasm got the best of me and I volunteered to be one of the first. For all comedic purposes, this was definitely the highlight of the day, although that's much easier to say now that I'm resting on a non-living item. During the adventure, I probably would have wet my pants, if I didn't fear upsetting the four-legged demon that I was sitting on. Where to begin...
Well, as I said, there were ten horses available in the first group, but there weren't too many people running to get in line--everyone else clearly knew something that I didn't--but I thought I'd give it a try. We were told to stay close, since the horses would be ready in a few minutes. An hour later (this is Argentina, after all), two very sun-worn, tough looking dudes mounted a couple of horses and galloped off to round up our rides. Apparently, cowboys don't die, they just move to Argentina. A few minutes later, John Wayne and Butch Cassidy returned, circling a pack of horses in a scene straight out of a beer commercial. At this point, I began wondering what the hell I got myself into. I didn't stop wondering that until I was back on my own two feet.
Señor Wayne came up to us and told us that these were actual, responsive horse that weren't like the kind we've ridden before. (Oh God, he thinks I've ridden a horse before.)
[Actually, for the sake of humor, I've omitted my few encounters of the four-legged kind, I'm really not an absolute novice. My equestrian career: 1) A few lessons in summer camp about 10 years ago (of which I remember nothing about), 2) A trip with my uncle and cousin on top of a rented horse that made a city bus driver look enthusiastic, and 3) the knowledge of how things turned out for Christopher Reeves, Genghis Khan, and just about everybody in Gone With the Wind. Not the best combination. With that out of the way, on with the story]
Our guides continued to ease our worries by telling us that a few of the horses never really responded well to training, and they should be handled by experienced riders. They asked if anyone knew how to ride a horse, and a few hands went up, but none of them belonged to me. He told a girl with some horseback experience that she'd have her hands full with the first horse he brought over. If the Trojans used an actual horse, this would be the one. As he was helping her up (and up, and up), he noticed me, and I knew what was coming. No, don't say it. "You," he said, pointing at me. Crap. "You should take this horse, it'll fit you better." Fit better? I won't be fitting too well in the tree he throws me into!
I got on it, relatively uneventfully, and we proceeded as a group though the surrounding forest. Well, they proceeded as a group. I had some problems keeping up. My horse didn't quite get the concept of a gradual turn, it had two modes: straight away, or a move that I called toilet-bowling. It was like a living tilt-a-whirl. I eventually caught up to the group only to find them stuck at a stream. There was a bridge a few meters away, and it seemed like the better option to most of the horses, but not mine. Of course. My horse (oblivious to any of my instructions given in last-ditch desperation) came to what felt like a full gallop, and perfectly cleared a 2 yard gap. I can't possibly convey that feeling in words (at least in polite company), but now I know what it feels like to be truly breathless. I wish I were joking. I was at once thrilled, bewildered, and poop-my-pants afraid. My horse (and everyone else within earshot) was lucky I couldn't find the breath to express myself. It really was an unreal experience.
The ride continued with a few more glitches and hijinks, but I've got to move on with the story. We came back to a lunch that I'm lucky wasn't served before the ride of doom. But it was absolutely delicious, at least until I started asking questions. Here's a sample of a few exchanges between my server and me (in Spanish, of course):
Me: Mmmm, this is delicious, what is it?
Server: Cow pituitary gland.
Me: Oh.
Me: Mmmm, this sausage tastes great, but why is the texture so different? What's in it, refried beans?
Server: No, congealed cow's blood.
Me: Aaackk, bleegggg, guurrff. Oh.
The rest of the afternoon actually passed in a surprisingly tranquil manner. I spent the first part of the afternoon scaling a mobile climbing wall that was set up on the grounds. After all, nothing says "relaxing day in the Argentine pampas" quite like clinging on to ceramic nipples for dear life. I also played in a great game of soccer which wouldn't be very funny at all if the field hadn't been littered with the biggest cow pies I've seen in my life. It was kind of like playing soccer in a mine field, although this one was just a little bit worse. Afterwards we played some volleyball, and although the court wasn't dotted with poo-bombs, was inhabited by several ostriches that were pretty reluctant to give up their stomping grounds.
The day ended up being very fun, and I've got quite a decent tan to show for it. I apologize about the length, but, as Tom Robbins says, the details make the story. If you don't know who he is, look him up, it's worth it. Talk to you all soon.
M
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