in the selva

Butterflies like confetti. Surrounded by dense jungle - green vines, trees, leaves twisting together - with the occasional pop of firework like flower, red, pink, yellow. And the falls. The falls. The falls are like. like nothing i´ve seen before. can´t make a metaphor. good thing i can load pictures in a couple days.

heading to the selva!

From the concrete jungle to the jungle jungle. About to hop on a bus for a few hours (20ish!) headed for Iguazu Falls. Be back Monday morning.

Feria del Libro

When a guy friend from Argentina told me that a big book fair was coming to the exhibition hall down the block from my apartment a little over a month ago, I didn't exactly pencil it into my planner. When I started to see board signs for the Feria del Libro, I still didn't take much notice. But when my host mom's dad starting raving about it last week, I decided maybe I should check this thing out.

Turns out the Feria del Libro is the largest book fair in the spanish-speaking world. It's basically a two-week long meeting bringing together spanish authors, educators, publishers, librarians, bookstore owners and 1,200,200 readers from around the world. Yes, over a million. There's lectures, speeches, book signings, chats, contests, radio broadcasts, oh and books. There's books too.

This place has little, if any, resemblance to the annual elementary school book fairs where a truck would show up, unload a bunch of books about Aaron Carter and whatnot, posters (also often with Aaron Carter or some other half not-quite-but-almost celebrity)your class would have a reserved time to mingle and look at books. Then, you'd go home and tell your mom about the newest Babysitter's Club or vampire mystery, who would then send you to school with the next day with cash or a check if she was smart. Then, the girls generally returned home with a poster of yellow lab puppies and the boys with a poster of a Lamborghini.

No, this book fair is much more. It's not just a stuffy meeting of intellectuals or a giant bookstore, it's both, plus 1500 expositions from 42 countries, food, drinks, music. I guess it's more like a book party.

And how great that we still have book parties even though no one reads! And well attended book parties at that! The line was 3 blocks long all weekend, passing my front door. But I'm also in a country with a bookstore on every block. Somehow I don't think over a million people would come out for this no matter what US city you put it in...

But I like books, and being my mother's daughter, I been raised with a affinity for perusing bookstores. I can't tell you how many times I've had to beg her to leave a bookstore. If there's a bookstore in the proximity, she'll turn down ice cream, shopping, even a diet coke, so she can fondle used books. And like mother like daughter, I now seem to be stragnely attracted to bookstore, and have a hard time leaving. No matter that I will only read a fraction of the books I pick up, and a small fraction at that, there's just something fun about flipping through books, wondering what's inside, and knowing I'll never know. But how great that someone knows. If that makes ANY sense. (It's well past midnight). Anyways, I knew it was a bad idea to enter a gigantic book fair, but I did, and I've now been there three days in a row and kinda wanna go back tomorrow.

http://www.el-libro.org.ar/internacional/general/

No puedo tolerar la gente intolerante

Los negros son feos, los judios son raros, los paraguanos son vagos, los peruvianos son ladrones. Yesterday, I was practicing talking about hypothetical situations in spanish (for the exam) and I used the example "If I were Michelle Obama..." to which my host mom cut me off to say "but Michele Obama is black". If there's one thing I can't tolerate, it's intolerant people.

I realize that BsAs is a multicultural city and therefore there are bound to be class/race conflicts, but the amount of blatantly racist comments and rigid stereotypes i hear on a daily basis from my profesor, host parents, newcasters is astounding.

I think this is a product of lack of education and desperation. If your neighbor takes your job, you're probably going to hate him, and, if you don't feel so god about yourself, noting that at least youre better than your neighbor will make you feel better than something! I think that lack of resources ($) makes people desperate, and looking for someone to blame, hate, feel better than. In a nation insecure about its 2nd world status and still struggling to overcome a financial meltdown a decade ago, it seems logical that racism would flourish. And i am here to testify that it is.

It's been quite an experience to live with and care about people who think and talk like this. It's a lot easier to mentally place racists way over there...in the south...or on TV...and to think of myself as being so distinct from them. But putting a face on the "racist", living with them, and loving them has reminded me that racists are people too, even "good" people. When I hear such comments coming from the mouths of , for example, my host mom, I want to explain to her the basic concept that the existence of distinct races is a mere mental construct, a skin color and no more. But I know she can't just snap out of her racist mind. She's been trained since birth to think this way, and her entire reality is this way.

And that's the suckiest part about racism, it's really hard to change. Which makes me almost feel sorry for them. They clearly weren't educated and/or feel bad about their own situation if they resort to racist thinking. How sad.

I'm not trying to say that racism is okay or acceptable, just that living here has confirmed racism is not a product of an evil heart, but an unfortunate upbringing. (not that i really thought it was an 'evil heart' before, but you know what i mean.

On the bright side, all the youth i talk to are ashamed of the racist commments of their elders. Hope for the next generation? I hope so!

It'll be nice to return to hippie wonderland Sebastopol where we have nothing to fight about and all the hippies get along with everyone, as long as that person is a hippie.....

familia es feliz

The definition of family and friends is a little different here. A family is a group of people who share lineage, a last name, holidays, homes and a few other things. But here in Argentina, they share it all.

Every Sunday in Buenos Aires, all the shops close down so the families can get together. Hundreds of families convene for rollerblading, BBQ, boat rides at the rosedal (park) . Parillas (BBQs) are ignited at houses, apartments, and parks across Buenos Aires. Teenagers sober up from Saturday, divulge from their rooms, and come home from their friends' homes to give grandma a hug and eat dinner with the family (hormones are not an excuse here in Argentina).

Not only do they dedicate one of their weekend days to family, they pay tribute to this sacred structure every day. My host mom talks with her sister every day at 8:30, shortly after her parents call and often her sister calls back again. Even my host mom's sister's mother in law calls a couple times a week. I don't think my mom even knew her sister's mother in laws name or city of residence. My host dad eats lunch with his parents every single day and still goes on Sunday. One of my friends openly calls her sister her best friend and I have yet to see them without the other. Another friend's best friend's mother was her mother's best friend, and this has been going on for 3 generations.

The size of the family here is also of note. They're big, and always getting bigger. You don't have to become pregnant or even sign adoption papers to ad someone to the family, you just have to "consider" them family. I know people that have brothers that were later revealed to be "brothers". My host dad spends copious time with uncles, holds dinner parties for cousins he's never met visiting from Italy, and calls me hija. The bigger the better.

Part of the reason this can work out is that people don't move around a whole bunch here. People seem to move to the city, but rarely move out. I mean why would you? ;)

Whereas n the US it seems, the family structure has reduced in importance with divorces, people moving around all the time, and the fact that our culture just doesn't allow time for family (all the Italians didn't manage to diffuse it out to all of us I guess), we're way too busy with other things. At least we make up for rare visits and infrequent phone calls big gifts on xmas?

Anyways, the whole family structure itself is bigger and stronger. And I like it. I'm importing a few trends to the US: drop crotch pants, mate, long cafe chats, and the value of family.

Holy Shit

Garish American accent, designer sunglasses, a sunhat, a crown of blonde hair and a naive smile. A backpack the size of a bear cub behind, another smaller pack on the chest and a plastic grocery back of food in one hand.

To some, this girl looks like a young foreign college student travelling. To others this girl is a lost, wounded antelope, all alone in the savannah; an easy kill for a lucrative robbery.

So there I was, all alone in the Subte during rush hour practically asking to be robbed. And these predators are smart; I was only a little lost, and not wounded, but my backpack was loaded; we’re talking passport, macintosh laptop, Nikon camera and a wad of fresh $ar100 bills. But I’m not a dumb little deer, I knew I was a target. So with a vice grip on my backpack straps, an exaggerated “don’t you dare fuck with me” facial expression, and security camera eyes, I boarded the packed linea D for downtown Buenos Aires. Bring it, I thought.

Apparently, these precautions weren’t enough. A couple stops later, I glanced down to catch the hand of the man creeping from under a strategically placed sweatshirt like a trained cobra, about to strike on my zipper. SMACK! I swatted the little serpent, hissed “Fuck you”, gave the man a look absolute repugnance, and he hopped off at the next stop.

Minutes after it happened I mentally reenacted hypotheticals in which I yell a clever, painful phrase in quick Castellano, bust out a self defense move I saw in Tomb Raider and he leaves the Subte in tears.

After hundreds of warnings and anecdotes about the rutheless Buenos Aires robbers, I expected it would happen to me once. Maybe even twice. But three times in a week and a half?

That’s right. A few days later, leaving an ATM with crisp bills and a credit card, I thought felt something touch my backpack, anxious from the recent Subte episode, I casually shook my backpack to deter stray hands, kind of like how a horse flinches to deter flies. The, sure enough, some fine gentlemen at the next corner informed me that my backpack was unzipped. And no I didn’t forget to zip it thank you very much.

That weekend, I was on one of my weekly photography journeys, flittering through picturesque places in the city when I stumbled upon “La Catedral”, a huge, beautiful church. While inside a pigeon pooped on me! A couple of seconds later, a women who had a face just like Mother Mary in the idol to my right, tapped me on the back to inform me that she had a wet towel and wanted to help me. Phew, I thought, no embarrassing walk of shame! She proceeded to help me remove my backpack and DSLR camera and wipe the “poop” off my legs, back and out of my hair … all the while turning … wait … turning me? I thought. Why is she turning me? I turned my head just in time to catch another women who had been kneeling and “praying” to a baby Jesus, had quickly taken her hands out of prayer position and put them on my camera. Whoa! I thought! Whoa, Whoa, Whoa! I quickly snatched my camera, zipped the backpack and said “muchas gracias,” in a voice that got my point across. Get your grimy hands of my shiny stuff.

As I walked out of the church in a confused daze, I still couldn’t believe it. Did I just get robbed in a catholic church? No way, no one does that in a cathedral. And she looked just like Mary. And where would that poop come from? This was eiterh a grand, nasty plan, or that women wasn’t an accomplice, but someone else trying t help me? Hmm.

Maybe the bored security guard could help. Uhhh Hay uhhh palomas al dentro de le iglesia? He laughed.

I then got home and the first words out of my host mom’s mouth were “What is that stuff on your backpack?” (translated, of course). “Caca, paloma caca.” She looked at me weird and said “No,no,no,no,no, no es caca!”

It was then that I finally admitted that I’d been robbed in a Catholic church. Or attempted to be robbed.

Unfortunately, now I'm suspicious of just about everybody: children in school uniforms, pregnant women, neighbors, our sweet house cleaner; everybody’s a suspect. What a transition from trusting little Sebastopol, where suspicion is looked down upon. Theater seats and restaurant tables are held by purses: "Hey man, if I leave my wallet on our seats, don't you think people will know they're occupied?" Homeless people make more cellphone calls than some people who actually pay for a cell phone: "Bro, will you lend me a minute on that cell, I really gotta talk with my homie real quick." And everybody goes with it, fearful they might appear too suspicious, uptight, or worst of all "not chill."

I've been raised surrounded by hippies, storybooks and parents teaching me that we are all one, everyone has a good heart, blah, blah. And a beleive this. But. I also earned real quick that even if someone has a good heart, they still may want my stuff. And here, most people want my stuff. Because few people have my stuff.

Manifestanciones

Why does Mom always have to be right when I really don't want her to be? When we disagree, which isn't very often actually, I think were about 50/50 in terms of who has the most fact-based opinion in the end. But every time I really, really want to be right, or really, really think I'm right, she's right. When I completely blow her off, say, "duh" or don't let her finish her sentence, karma bites me, seemingly changing the laws of the universe to counteract whatever I'm so firm about. So when I rolled my eyes during our first skype conversation when I mentioned I was planning to travel through Bolivia and she progressed to whip out a laundry list of reasons not to enter this god-forsaken boobie trap of a country, starting with road blockades and ending with fatal altitude sickness, I should have remembered this bizarre pattern of her being right when I know I'm right, and stopped the eye roll-subject change in its tracks. But I didn't and here I am reading about breaking news of large scale protests, worker strikes and road blockades in La Paz, Rurrenbaque and Santa Cruz.

Maybe we really should rethink this whole Bolivia thing given that I almost laughed when my mom mentioned fatal altitude sickness.

With this knowledge uneasily in mind, we tentatively continued to sew together a route through Bolivia last night, knowing that our entire quilt will unravel if this civil unrest continues. The alternative of Northern Chile just seems so dry and flat and....well, dry and flat sums it up. I'm thirsty for the rugged selvas, indigenous villages, and chicken buses, and only Bolivia can quench it.

So what are they protesting, anyways? Voy a averiguar...

5 great films, and no I'm not bored

To me, going to the movies seems on par with going to the mall: expensive, often boring and repetitive, usually disappointing, and overall just a waste of time. I've just had it with forking out 12 bucks for two hours of overstimulation without any evident purpose. How many people did I need to see shot up, blown up, beat up, sexed up in an extremely patterned fashion before I got bored of main stream movies? Well, it took 20 years, hundreds of blockbusters, and a warehouse of popcorn, but I now paradoxically find the movies full of action, complex plot lines, flawless actors, to be dull and repetitive.

So when signs started popping up around the city advertising an independent film festival in Buenos Aires, I thought, "Oh neat, I wonder what this is all about." I then found the website for the BAFICI film festival, with 422 films, 10 pesos tickets ($2.50) and immediately contacted my film geek best friend to exlaim "OHH NEATO! CHECK THIS OUT!"

We started out seeing a Ukrainian film about competitive horseback riding teens who may be lesbians, but it's really about the nature of power in human relationships (as Natasha so finely extracted from symbolism of dog training whistles in the film ... film degrees are NOT useless, mom).

The next night we watched a French mom who never grew up get nixed from her daughters wedding invitation list, get a job in Brazil selling time shares, a nice boyfriend and finally an invite to the wedding. Then we watched her fuck up the job, boyfriend and the wedding. I think the message had to do with being yourself even when you don't fit into societal norms. I mean hey, she was happy the almost the entire movie.

Next, we sat through an hour and a half long meditation on the relation between individual humans, society and nature framed by Henry David Thoreau quotes. This Swiss film follows a young trouble maker around his rural neighborhood, as he wanders, makes mischief and comments on the completely normal lives of his neighbors. The film was slow, real slow. Minutes without dialogue, scenes with now apparent purpose, constant mental nagging to check the time. But the message was sweet, or the message I gave it...To me the film was about how the boy doesn't really like, or doesn't really get society yet. He wants to run through muddy creeks dressed in a tuxedo, pop car tires with salvaged parts of soccer goal post parts, and just about anything that rebellious "I didn't make the rules of the world", he says. The other people in the film then have different relationships with society in terms of success etc. and with nature. Through the quotes it becomes apparent that the film is about how we are al born into this crazy human world, where our species makes rules and customs that we have no choice but to abide by or live amongst, but we always have the patterns of nature to fall back on. When the world is falling apart (the human constructed one), we can always look up at the sky, find silence sitting in a field, or swim in a pond and remember that the rules are fake. Were just animals on a crazy, crazy planet. Beautiful message. But the after thought for me: what happens when we destroy this thing called nature, cover it in concrete and burn it to ashes? Hmph.

We kept the pajama party rollin' with a documentary about a mayor in Slovokia who thinks his town has two many single people. He organizes a party and plays matchmaker trying to get people to get down. His mission: failed. The film: success. Very funny, and anthropologically interesting to see a town in the middle of Slovakia. Let's just say I'm glad my parents didn't find real estate while backpacking through Eastern Europe. And I'm also glad to not be 40 and single (just banged on my desk).

The marathon finished on a euphoric note, with a film called "Run, Sister, Run" in which two teenagers get out of control, drinking, stealing, smoking, having sex and running away. The hard rock music and fast scenes took me right back to age 16, bringin up dusty memories of yelling fights with parents, overwhelming emotions, and the fun of not doing what you're told. Not sure if there was any big point, but it was fun to relive the glory days of pot smoking in cars and skipping class. (Mom and Dad: Julianna made me do it, don't worry)

Watching five movies in a week sounds like something someone who really needs antidepressants and a job would do, but I don't think I need either, and the films were great. Each one slow enough and different enough to make me think, and rethink some stuff I don't always think about. They were the opposite of the main stream predictable plots, with bizarre scenes, less than attractive actors, refreshingly real life characters, little to no violence, no naked people, and 1/5 the price. I came away from each film with a slightly different take on something, whether it be marriage, life in Brazil, or life itself.

I feel like movies can change lives, or the way people view life (which is really all we have). But so few films do. Mainstream films have become this odd escapism practice, where we go to some idealized reality, and be some idealized person, whether it be a sexy boss in the fashion industry with two boy toys or a detective who at night is a superhero blowing up bad guys, and then getting freaky with his two girl toys. I'm glad quality movies that make the viewers think, discuss and debate still exist; even if they make no money and are only seen my film nerds and losers like Natasha and I.

It was great to rekindle my love of movies through the BAFICI.

Now where THE HELL the the almost free indie film fests in the US? Oh that's right, they don't exist.

Semana loca, recien antes de Semana Santa

This dog was barking and growling at the fox tails. Lolzzz.

The last flame has finally flickered out on a forest fire of a week. Five intense films at the BAFICI independent film festival, multiple big life realizations and a peek behind the Buenos Aires's velvet curtain revealing the stark reality of poverty. Forest fires are natural and necessary, I know. But it sure feels nice once the heat, flames and smoke have subsided, leaving behind clear skies, fresh air and opportunity for nature to take advantage of the fresh, fertile soil.
http://www.bafici.gov.ar/home11/web/es/index.html

Chivalry ain't dead

My new roommate.


; )

Walking down the street in Buenos Aires, I sometimes just feel like a target. No wait, I don't feel like a target, I AM a target. Target for robberies, for bird poop, fake bird poop and a target for the commentaries of the huge surplus of Machistos males spilling out of building doorways, lurking in streetside cafes and waiting at intersections on motorbikes. It's like I'm one of those poor little chipmunks wearing a cowboy hat in a old-school Disneyland shooting range. Every time the plywood figure elevates, BOOM! Multiple overly excited male spot the beady eyes and the little guy is hit by an invisible bullet as the laser on the fake rifle connects with the red eyes of the squirrel. Then, PING! the hinges immediately swing the squirrel's face back into hiding. I allow my eyes to leave the side walk and wander to the approximate elevation of other human eyes and BOOM! some overly excited male sports my eyes and pierces them with an intentioned stare with lazer-like precision. Like the shooting range, the invisible yet powerful bullets are accompanied by predictable sounds including, but not limited to, whistles, hoots, hollers and engine revving. Once one of these guys hits me with a laser beam stare, just like the squirrel darts back behind the plastic "saloon" sign, my eyes dart somewhere else. Usually to the sidewalk, or cross the street, I pretend to have this glazed over look and stare intently at a tree or some nearby object, so they think I actually didn't hear/see them. At first it was disgusting and intolerable; then it became annoying, really annoying; and now it's just funny.

I thought about writing about how I feel like a piece of meat sometimes, or a baby wildebest in a Kenyan water whole, because often I do. But this stuff just gets me down. Thinking of the Machisto ways in a comical way, like it's a Disneyland game and my eyes are dodging around avoiding laser bullets makes it that much more tolerable. It can actually be really entertaining to watch this unfold. You just have to laugh when some guy winks at you while feeding his baby or in mid sentence on a cell phone call interrupts to say "Buen dia," (of course in a tone of voice that shows that he's not trying to wish you a good day, but let you know he wants to take your clothes off).

Now that said, I am talking about the common "street machisto", the harmless bored men that seem to need to call attention to themselves by calling attention to every young woman. The situation in the boliches, (basically clubs without a last call) is unbearable. I knew I wouldn't like the boliches when I heard what they were, I've never liked clubs, even though I've also never been to one. I just know I don't. But for some reason I went. And just like Jiminey Cricket warned me, I hated it. These giant mating rituals are hubs of machisism (coming to a Webster's dictionary near you...) , where every guy that hollered at you today on the street and all their friends meet, unbutton their shirts, put on dad's gold chain, and chug vodka and speed (red bull with more sugar, tastes similar to, uhh, sugar). So these drunk machistos now have twice the confidence, twice the energy, plus the cultural tradition of kissing before, after, and during every social encounter. You can probably guess that this recipe bakes up and over the top orgy, where females with any dignity are literally ducking and dodging from kisses. I am not exaggerating. Just walking from point A to point B in the club, I would encounter anywhere from one to three attempts to hold my hand, meaning guys grabbing my hand. And a couple times attempt to kiss me before even learning my name. It was unreal. I would like to be able to look at this like a game and just laugh it off, but it's not as harmless and simple as the wild west shooting range. This is more comparable to Grand Theft Auto, where you're escaping bad guys and using self defense. Wayyyy more intense. For the few hours I was in the boliche, I knew I had a choice: either get shit faced, probably enjoy myself, and also probably contract herpes. Or be Debby Downer and just watch this locura go down. I decided to put on my Anthropology glasses and analyze this shit. Now that's my type of Saturday night. I ended up basically concluding that this is chivalry in the 21st century, and that all those cat calls in the streets are really the desperate calls of insecure males, anguishing in the realization that women have the same rights, same brain size (I heard ours were bigger, but I don't want to hurt any feelings on here) , and a longer life span. It seems these shouts, whistles, hollers and lazer beam stares are their last trying effort to put us back in our place, to remind us "Hey, you're just a chica", "You're just a sex object to me". My final conclusion was that I hate boliches. But also that they're really entertaining from a table in the corner with females on either side of me.

There are so many things that I can accept about other cultures and ways of life, but this Machisto attitute has been really hard to digest. It makes me so thankful that back home I (usually) can walk down the street in peace. In addition, I realize that, actually, I enjoy opening my own door, thank you. "Chivalry is dead", don't the Argentines listen to Nelly Furtado?

Planes para Mayo

This photo has nothing to do with this post. It was taken on my dream of a day on the street of Colonia, Uruguay. A "tranqui" (short for tranquilo or translated as chill) day with a nap on the beach, good friends, and slow walks on cobblestone streets. tranqisimo.






As travel plans for May begin to take on some sort of vague material reality involving city names, distances, prices, and national geographic photos, my excitement builds and builds. "Whoaaaa!" I think evertime I try to do a little internet research, "I haaaaave to see this!". Then I click a link. And "Whhhoaaaaaa!" says the voice in my head, "This too!"

31 days seemed like a generous allotment of time when I bought my plane ticket in January, but now it seems minuscule. There are so many places I want to see: archeological sites, beautiful towns, big cities, ecological reserves, the list goes on. But the problem is the list can't go on.

I had this image of South America as the big little place. Like I knew it was really big, but I pictured the distances between places as being relatively short. But I guess that's what you get for growing up flying every time your family travels more than 300 miles. So anyways, it turns out most these places are 20-30 hour bus rides on dirt roads and therefore we can't visit all 50 places I want to visit. And in addition, my conception of traveling is a little more despacio than most. I'd rather stay in 3 places for a few days than zip through 20 places just for a photo op and bathroom break.

So! Here are our plans as of yet:

May 7th: Saldremos Buenos Aires.

Next to Salta and Jujuy, in Northern Argentina. Known for wild llamas, indigenous culture and beautiful "cerro de siete colores" (aka super colorful mountains).

Next, we cross over into Bolivia. Hopefully smoothly we get through customs and on to the town on the other side. From there it's a 20 hour train ride (and the train only goes on Tuesdays and Saturdays....this ain't no Amtrak) through the Bolivian Salt Flats (also known as the moon). I'm really excited for this train ride, and some of it will be moonlit! We end up in Unuyi.

Next, bus to La Paz and Lake Titikaka. Chill there for a bit. Piles of places to see around the lake.

Then cross into Peru, head for Cusco, and then Machu Piccu.

Our plans after that are basically to: "see the jungle, like Heart of Darkness". So we need to a) work on this and b) decide how much we value our lives before jumping on a river boat in Amazonia with six men with machetes. And I digress.....

Mate, the Argentine bong

My drug of choice is caffiene. And I'll admit, I am not a casual user. It started with frappucinos, progressed to diet cokes and finally became an addiction when I not only started enjoying black coffee, but managed to get three jobs, all that offer free coffee, and one that even gives me a free pound every week for home. Taylor Maid knows how to keep employees. If your employees are addicts and you give them free drugs, I mean come on no wonder everyone's been there for years.

But anyways, today I bought a mate and bombilla, expanding my caffeine intake options. A big move for a coffee lover, because you can't, or shouldn't do both. A morning of mates and coffee is could quickly push one into a caffeine overdose, with anxiety, slurred rapid speech, and over excitement at small things. If you want to see someone ODing on caffiece, just go order something at Starbucks, the person who takes your order is trippin'.

But I digress. I am excited to be embracing the mate. Yes, it contains caffeine, but the consumption of mate has little in common with the consumption of coffee in the US. Similarly to the way coffee here is a social ritual, involving over an hour at a cafe and mandatory banter among friends or strangers, mate drinking is a social matter. They always warn you that once you start smoking pot or drinking alone, you clearly have a problem; and in that case Americans have a big giant addiction as we hide away in cubicles, bedrooms and cars, nursing 32oz black tar, ehem I mean, black coffee. Here, the mate is like a college freshmen bong, an excuse to sit down and talk, bullshit, argue and make friends. Except mate is legal, cheaper, better for you, and will leave your mind feeling clear and energized, not foggy, tired and confused. Freshmen year of college I smoked a lot of pot. Not because I love the feeling of being stoned, (a deep breath does much more for me than a bong rip) but because of the fun I had sitting in a circle in some dark dorm room talking, chatting, joking, listening to music and just enjoying company. I remember when I stopped smoking, I didn't miss the drug itself, but mostly the friends, conversations and such. Here, it's like people are lighting up bongs on the streets, but their offering mate. People walk around with their mate (the gourd) and just lit down and offer it to others; friends, strangers, storekeepers. If you ever want to make a friend, just bring your mate or find someone with mate and they will undoubtly be happy to share with you. Where is this ritual in the US??! Why don't we have some equivalent excuse to just sit down and enjoy company, share a little herb (lol) and some conversation. It seems like just a small thing, "oh gosh darn, I wish we had some tradition that allowed us to bullshit more", but honestly it's kind of a big deal! Sometimes chance meetings with acquaintances or other people you'd like to talk with but have no excuse (cute boys anyone?) can be so awkward. You either say "hey, uhhh good to see you!" or "like we should totally meet up" (with no intention on either end), or you have to be super courageous and make plans to do something, without knowing if the other person even wants to! Now mate solves all this. "Would you like to join me for some mate?" and you sit down for a few minutes wherever you are and chat. Other people can join in, and suddenly you've made friends, caught up with old friends, and basically had a really nice little interaction.

Now I'll shut up about how great mate is, but one other thing I think is important about this ritual is the sharing aspect. There's something really nice about offering a little of what you have to whomever wants some. It reminds me of the stories I heard in catachism (spelled wrong, but that wretched after church thing where the kids go to learn about Jesus) when Jesus would be in the desert and share his water or his hummus or whatever. Or it's kind of like how the girl who shares her gum in class always has a million friends, and also is generally a really nice person. Anyways, yay for mate and sharing.

Of course the pastry boys are gay..

Yesterday, while purchasing a sympathy sweet, if that's a thing (I thought a big creamy bite of a dulce de leche pastry would absolve the death of my host mom's tio, which by the look on her face did for a minute), the woman who picked out the round morsel oozing of caramel laughed at me when I asked her if she baked the sweets. "Of course not," she said smiling in mutual understanding with the woman across the room. "The women work in the front, and the men bake." She then paused, thinking if she would tell me why she was laughing. She did. "They're all gays, like in the salons, all the pastry makers are gay." I then looked up to catch one of these guys walking through the double doors to the kitchen, sporting a clean shave, pressed pants, and a face that could be in a Prada campaign; I knew she wasn't kidding.