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?