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.

They're Back

You know those epic moments when for example a Backstreet Boys song comes on the overhead when you're wandering the aisles of a supermarket, and every word seems to be about your life right now, and you're filled with a strange euphoria and sudden deep affection for '90's American pop music, and you can't help but look at the checker and say "Me encanta esto cancion!" in the hopes of a confirming reply that won't affirm that you've completely fallen off your rocker?

Well this was definitely the first time this has ever happened to me, and the checker's confused laugh didn't sufficiently refute my conviction that the aspartame in all those diet cokes or the chemicals in all those Bp plastic containers I've put into the microwaves had accumulated and finally caught up to my brain functions. I mean, I never even like Backstreet when they were big!

I took a deep breath, stepped out onto the sidewalk away from any speakers and decided that there's no reason to fight the feeling (seriously it was euphoric). It must just one of the symptoms of living in another faraway and unfamiliar culture, that small nostalgic sentiments that you never even knew you had in you bubble up when you least expect it.

But Backstreet...really?

Tan Dulce

token smiling Italian owner (this pic caught the chest hair, but unfortunately missed his gold chain necklace)

See-through refrigerators

Alfajores

Facturas

A sliver of the variety

Another happy owner, maybe not Italian though...

Happy Birthday! To happiness and health.....Salud!

"Bueno dia, Emma! Tenemos un desayuna especial hoy!"

Breakfast, really? These beautiful facturas are from a place across the street from my apartment. Every block in Buenos Aires seems to have a kiosco (minimart), a leaking air conditioner and a token artisanel bakery. These corner shops are typified by grand display windows showcasing an outrageous variety of sweet morsels, treats, pastries, cakes, and pies. Each has a deli ticket machine and once they call your number you point to what you want like a spoiled brat in a toy shop. You then bring your receipt up to a cash register that is usually manned by a beaming italian looking owner.

I can't emphasize the variety enough. If you're one of those people whose always feels bogged down by the mundane choice between a bagel or crossaint every time you go to a cafe, and are always dousing you pastries with extra jellies and condiments, then you should probably come to Argentina in your lifetime. But if you're one of those people who tells the waiter multiple times that you need "just a minute" and makes the whole table wait for you to have an epiphany about whether fried eggs or an omelette is the best choice for you right now and get spend hours staring off in supermarkets, then don't step in one of these places. And also, if you usually choose the bagel, don't expect ANYTHING salty here. Well, maybe a quiche, but everything else is made from some combination of flour, sugar, butter and sometimes milk, chocolate and jelly.

For me everything I've tasted from the Porteno sweet factories has been over the top. Case in point, the birthday cake above: 20 layers of crepes glued by a thick dulce de leche, and topped off with creme chantilly (aka whipped cream). I'm accustomed to a bowl of simple oatmeal for breakfast, I guess the most neutral thing there is (on the salty-sweet spectrum) and black coffee. If I go out for breakfast, I flip to the eggs or hashbrown page of the menu. So regularly waking up to a plate of alfajores or frosted cake with sprinkles has been quite odd.

All the things I've tasted from these bakeries have been ridiculously tasty, but ridiculously overwhelming first thing in the morning.

Mendoza: touring, tasting and trekking in the wine country

We recline deeply into the plush seats of our three mini tour buses as if we've just plopped down in lazy boys at a superbowl party. As we embark on a day excursion and wine tasting tour in Mendoza, Argentina, a region 12 hours Northwest of BsAs, I hear a faint voice over the intercom say: "Sit back, relax and enjoy the Andes in 3D! Over priced snacks will be available at your beckoning call throughout our voyage. Oh and please don't forget to visit our gift shop just beyond the exit doors on you way out!" Or maybe that was just my imagination...

First stop, Bodega numero uno. All 75 of us UC students are herded though a "state of the art" winery as efficiently as cows are prodded through an industrial dairy. Phase 1, 2 and 3 pass rather rapidly and thoughtlessly, with basic and unsurprising explanations of facilities, history, and a silent question and answer period. Rather abrubtly, we find ourselves in the tasting room (or milking area?). While most of us have much more experience chugging than sipping, we play the role of the wine connoisseurs for a couple seconds before pouring back a vino tinto and promptly washing it down with the vino blanco. Next the group proceeds to the obligatory facebook photoshoot phase of tour that is unofficially scheduled in all enviable events involving the 19-21yr age range, and is especially important for those overseas. I mean hello! how will my friends see how great of a time I'm having without a weekly facebook album update. "Don't forget to tag me!" each smile implies. After a dizzying 20 minutes of lecture, tour, tasting, posing, we are dumped off in the buying area where most students buy a bottle or two of wine for them or the more wholesome students, for mom. The guides crack the whip and we beeline for the buses, giftbags wagging in the hands of all.

Stops 2,3, and 4 pass with predictable success as try to sample all the sensory pleasures of the Mendoza region in a very short amount of time, much like siblings in Costco with a looming meeting time to meet mom (yes, this feeling is familiar).

We hopped off at a olive oil factory that also happened to have a full line scented face and body lotions. I would love to know how an olive oil factory works, but my both my periferal and frontal vision were unfortunately obstructed by a thick curtain of giggles and flipping ponytails (nothing against the girls in my program, the sheer number of us was the issue). The olive oil tasting left some to be desired considering many of us were pretty hungry, but luckily the tour ended in .... a gift shop! where we could purchase some calories to fill our empty bellies (choices included olive oil, vinegar, olive paste, or lotion ... better than nothing? I wasnt sure)

Then we went on to an organic and biodynamic winery and the tour passed curiously similarly to the others. I once again, would have liked to actually know about organic wines in Argentina, methods and certification, but once again, I was shooed to the cash register and then the reclining seat in the bus with an aggressively smile.

Finally, we parked in front of an artesanal chocolate, liqueur and jam factory, where we tasted an intense array of intense flavors from coffee dulce de leche to dulce de leche liqeur to absinthe. Yes, absinthe. For the last time, we packed into the three buses and were shipped back to the hostel and dropped off in a relatively happy, exhausted and slightly drunken state. Hell of a day.

And I mean hell as in big day, but also a little bit of the negative connotation of the word as well. Growing up in a family where a single hike or plunge into water (which included swimming pools unheated and heated, lakes, rivers of all colors... and textures, swamps, and once or twice a water fall) were the most substantial chunks of our vacation days, and where souveniers were bought with hard saved piggy bank change in places such as Costco (Yes, Maui has a very nice Costco, with a whole 9 x 12 shelf for Hawaii souvenirs made in China), you'd think this type of luxury, drive me up to the fun and excitement and quickly escort me to the next big event would be what me and my two siblings have been dreaming of since we first noticed that some kids in the adjacent hotel get on big buses everyday to go to places that we don't know, won't know, but do know that they are surely better than wherever we're headed. "Duuuuude..I wonder how much it costs" said in my brother's voice, excited but seething with jealousy.

In my younger years, the gift shops were where us kids went to get out of our parents' hair, get our parents out of our hair, or just to go touch things we couldn't have; not to actually buy things. But on our tour of Mendoza gift shops, wine emporiums and purchasing in general was the main event. We basically paid big bucks to have a tour that takes us to places where we test out products to see if we want to shell out more bucks. Travelling for the consumerist generation!

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not Amish or Socialist, I go shopping just to go shopping, I buy things I don't need, but this whole consumer tourism thing just felt wierd, like it crossed the line into the realm of Black Friday tramplings and $10,000 purses and shopping malls bigger than citis, you know the wierd hyper consumerist stuff that makes you question you ponder the characteristics of the modern era alliegance to capitalism as a whole?

So anyways, it was pretty odd to be trying to save money (I thought all college students were...), and being chauferred from one buying oriented destination to the next. And, somehwat surprisingly, I was pretty alone in my abstinence of pointless and expensive purchases, as few students seemed to thin twice about at least getting "sooooommmething" at each place. I guess abroad programs attract a pretty well off demographic.

The next day, we did a tour in the same three buses. Now this tour was not for the consumerist generation, but for the video game generation (yes, I'm referring to the same generation...). We were carted from one photo-op or point of interest to the next, finishing with a 30 minute "hike". We saw absolutely breathtaking views and neat historical landmarks, but didnt get to know or understand any of them. As soon as I started to take a deep breath and soak in the unfathomable geology or wonder about the plant life, we would be herded back to the vans like the day before.

I say this type of tour is catered to the video game generation because I think it assumes we all have ADD and are used to over-stimulation which, well, most of us probably are. We are taken to a bunch of big attraction in one day, kind of like Andes in IMAX.

I'll quit ranting about this trip, because in reality, Mendoza was beautiful but I think big groups of 20-year olds are a bit over whelming and schedules that don't include time to sit down and take a deep breath and enjoy where you are just arent for me.

The third day in Mendoza, I chose to take a long hike followed by snacks, coffee and mate (finishing on a 'high' note with all that intoxicating caffiene) with two Argentine girls. It was so much calmer, no sensory overload, and us three really got to know eachother. I also got to explore the town itself, where most notably they have a style of architecture that's a neat mix of contemproary and simple with lots of dark woods. Kind of like Frank Loyd Wright, but for mod.

Below are some pics of the trip!