The power of The Mate.

I'm still blogging for Glimpse.org. Click here: The power of The Mate.

I'm back . . . online. Kind of.

Oh hello there. I'm sorry to have neglected you. I swear I didn't mean it. I'm just trying not to spend my life on the Internet. It's not working very well.

Ha. Ok here's what's going on in Argentina:

(click here)
Floggers, the new urban tribe.

XO. Julie

Love in the city.

Spotted in the subte.

In the clutches of a coin shortage

So, besides working as a programs coordinator at a Spanish school, I'm also working for Glimpse, an online magazine for young people living abroad. I'm blogging for them, so I'll be posting some bits and pieces about life in Buenos Aires on Glimpse.org.

If you are interested in the latest on the coin shortage here, head over to the blog:

No hay monedas -- Buenos Aires in the clutches of a coin shortage.

Erk, I still haven't changed my flight . . . procrastination is eating away at me.

Wait, wait . . .

This is a subte station. For some reason, I'm really into taking pictures in the subte.

So I have something to admit.

I have not called to change my March 9 flight home to a later date. The idea is to change it to May. But I can't bring myself to do it. Why? I'm scared to make definite plans to go home.

Yes, I just went through and read some of my old blogs, how I was so scared to come here, and I've suddenly found myself 180 degrees away from that -- I start shivering in my boots (or rather, sandals, it's summer here) when I think about setting foot in the good old U.S. of A. So many expectations, so few jobs . . . erk!

This procrastination is really bad though -- I need to call the airline company and change my flight to set a date, or I'll be selling some organs to buy a ticket to get back into tierra madre.

Spotted last Sunday in Buenos Aires' botanical gardens.

It's a good thing my parents are adventuring in Brazil at the moment (look at them!), or they'd be calling to ream me out.

This is in Colonia, Uruguay.

Stoplights and good food.

Above: Evening in Colonia, Uruguay on Wednesday.

The parents have arrived!

What does this mean?

The two of them have way more energy than I do, and on Wednesday went to dinner at midnight, when I had to curl up and retreat to my bed.

Stuart has found many uses for his Spanish. I was particularly impressed by the fact that he knew the word ''semáforo'' (stoplight) which is a word I'm not sure I'd be able to recall on the spot. He has not won over any nuns with his Spanish skills (the rumor is that this happened in Spain), but they still have two more days in Buenos Aires . . .

Molly has made it her goal to go to every craft fair, big and small, in the city. This is quite lofty in a city where every corner is a great place for a ''fair,'' but I would say she's doing quite well.

The two of them have figured out the subway system (after only a tiny bit of instruction) and today they even switched lines!

Also, we have embarked on ''Julie's unofficial international food tour of Buenos Aires.'' After almost six months in Argentina, I'm taking advantage of the opportunity to eat at some places that don't serve pizza or empanadas. So far we've hit up a falafel place and a Vietnamese restaurant. Tonight might be Mexican or Indian. It looks like for ''real'' Argentine food they're going to have to break off on their own.

Above is a shot I took when we visited Uruguay on Tuesday.

Hiding in dark corners.

Today it rained. A lot. There was flooding. A lot of it.

So I did the only rational thing you can do when it gets ominously dark and rainy in a large Latin American city -- I went downtown, hid in corners and took pictures of people as they whizzed by me.

Naturally, it was fun.

I added some new pictures. You can see some of them by clicking here: Shadows and blurs.

You don't need facebook to access the photo album.

Hugs and kisses to all!

Julie

Above: After I asked this guy what time it was, he took of running to catch the train. There he is in the subte tunnel with his feet midair. I'm standing in the entranceway to the tunnel.

Above: For weeks I've been curious about a seemingly abandoned house in my neighborhood. I pass it every day on the way to work, and I wonder if anyone lives inside -- it's quite rundown, and I'm not even sure if there it has a roof. This evening however, I spotted some residents --- here's one of them, on her bicycle.

Sorry, no postings this week. Or next.

Every day my wonderful friend Rachel Saffitz forwards me the journalism job listserv circulated by her university. Of course, I usually skip right over the PR jobs that sound like they actually pay a living wage and head right for anything that says ´´reporter´´ or even better ´´intern.´´

Today, however, there was no skipping involved, nor was a forced to ponder what my parents might do to me if I tell them I am interested in spending a fourth summer as an intern.

This is because the listserv was even more pathetic than usual.

I´ve copied you all below. Anybody want to get a drink? (It´s almost 5 pm here).

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
1. JOURNALISM INTERNSHIPS:
Sorry, no postings this week.





xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
1. FREELANCE:
Sorry, no postings this week.





xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
1. JOURNALISM EDUCATION:
Sorry, no postings this week.

Bon-bons.

In Argentina, the ''catcall'' is not a catcall at all, it's a carefully crafted ''compliment'' sometimes shouted, but more often subtly grunted as you pass the kiosk/bus stop/church/grocery store/gym/bar/bathroom/table/subway turnstile/shopping mall. The cheesy pick up line is not a pick up line at all, but a simple way to interact between men and women, of all ages. Not important at all if the lady in question is not even quite a lady yet, or if the male in question could have dated her grandmother.

Hence, a warning if any of you ladies ever take a little trip to Buenos Aires: You will be ''complimented'' often and in a variety of creative ways, by doormen, by taxi drivers, by gentlemen at kiosks, by people on motorcycles and even the colectivero. You may even start to think your real name is ''nena'' (baby) or ''mami'' (momma?) depending on your doorman's preferred terminology.

I have recently struck up a ''friendship'' with one of the doorman in a building near mine. Fortunately (I think?) I pass his building every day after work, which provides me with endless amount of entertainment. Call me crazy, but I think he spends the entire day inventing new lines for the ladies who pass by his building. After discovering the similarities in our names, he has become even, err, friendlier.

Julio: Hola linda.
Julie: Hola Julio, como le va . . .
Julio: Did you get that little piece of paper?
Julie: Huh? What piece of paper?
Julio: The one they use to wrap you in because, baby,
you look just like a bon-bon. (like candy, get it?)
(cue uncontrollable chuckles on his part)

Really, it's sweet. Points for the creativity.

Besos!

Julie

Questionable habits

If you thought cell phones were used for talking, you were wrong, wrong, wrong. In this city, they are devices used for text messaging. (Talking? That's so 2002). Texting your Grandma, your girlfriend, the doorman who is standing in the hallway next to your office -- here in Buenos Aires they love the text message. No fear of getting a barrage of unwanted calls from that creepy guy you met at a bar in Palermo -- he'll never actually speak to you, you'll just receive a litany of texts wanting to know q tal estas? (Or, if you're really lucky, q tal estas?!?!?!?!?!? Punctuation marks have really caught on here, too).

Really, in Buenos Aires, they put teenagers to the U.S. to shame.

So I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised that I've noticed a new trend: Texting while riding riding your bicycle during rush hour. Yes, this happens, and frequently. I should also mention that Buenos Aires is severely lacking in stop signs, patient people and traffic laws in general. It is, however, quite full of potholes. And, I think I've mentioned this before, home to the widest street in the world.

The fact that portenos drive like beer-fueled race car drivers, however, has not stopped bicyclists from sending off a quick love note to a novia while pedaling down Avenida de Mayo. I've heard you get bonus points if you are typing, wearing headphones and balancing delivery food in the basket of your two-wheeler, because this I've also seen.

The government recently implemented a "Please-for-the-love-of-God-use-your-helmet" campaign, and they've posted yellow "USA CASCO" (Use your helmet!) signs all over the city. This is mostly directed at motorcyclists, but I'm wondering if the bicyclists will also pick up on it.

I've noticed, however, that portenos have some questionable habits in the health and safety department -- mostly a love affair with red meat, cigarettes and plastic surgery -- so I have my doubts.

And she actually arrived.

Well, she arrived today for her interview -- she being the mystery candidate who so kindly sent us the, um, wrong picture with her CV. She was heavily makeuped, but fully dressed, so unfortunately today at work wasn't all that interesting. Roli, however, did run into my office at the end of the day with a really cheesy smile and kept asking ''Did you see her?? Did you see her??''

Now we'll just see if she actually gets hired.

Photo attached?

The school where I work is in the midst of hiring new teachers, and something very, very . . . unusual happened today.

I should preface this by explaining that the hiring process in Argentina is a little different than it is in the U.S. While at home it is either illegal or simply unbecoming to consider a candidate based on marital status, exact age or number of children, these are basic facts that go right at the top of every CV that has passed through our office, right next to the awkward-looking photograph of the potential teacher.

My boss and I get a good laugh out of the photographs, many of which resemble that emo picture you have of yourself in the seventh grade, the one you revisit every few years just to remind yourself how awkward you were way back when. I often wonder what possesses some of these candidates to send photographs that look like they were taken with a polaroid camera after a really rough night at a boliche. Faces cut off, deep sunken eyes, unbrushed hair, tank tops, impossibly dreary pouts, bad flashes, horrible lighting, ripped clothes. You name it, I´ve seen it.

Or so I thought. Today, Carolina, one of my coworkers, opened her email account and began reviewing one of the CVs in her inbox. One potential teacher -- let´s call her candidate number 8 -- had a very nice resume, with lots of experience. She had included all the details -- minus one very important item. For some odd reason, she is not wearing any clothing in her photograph, and she had provided Carolina with an artfully posed full-body closeup.

This of course, elicited some speculation in in the office. Was this a joke? Did she upload the wrong photograph and press send without checking? Does she actually think this will get her a job? (I have not quite ruled this one out yet . . .)

So of course, after some contemplation, we took the only logical next step. The director of my school called candidate 8, and she will be arriving for an interview tomorrow at noon. Roli, our doorman, wants to know if she´ll be wearing any clothes.

Updates tomorrow . . .

De ahora en más

So, since I´ve announced it to my parents and to my boss and to a few of you, I suppose that it´s now going on to the blog: I´ve decided, officially, that I´m going to stay in Argentina longer than the six months I had originally planned.

My flight leaves on March 9, but it looks like I´ll be staying in South America a few months more. At the moment, I´m thinking of staying at my job until May, doing a bit of traveling and then making it home just in time for summer. Really, I just can´t see myself missing the annual Ben & Jerry´s bingefest, i.e. the week more universally known as ´´Turkewitz Family Vacation.´´

Reports of job conditions in the U.S. aren´t exactly roping me back in, and the sad condition of the economy has been made clear to me not only by my friends back home, but also by the suspiciously large community of expats who are here in Buenos Aires making ´´life changes´´ (a nice little euphemism for ´´I´m unemployed and it´s cheaper to live on the peso!´´) It´s a bit a ironic that we´ve fled to a nation with one of the worlds´most unpredictable economies, but hey, ironies make life interesting.

Mostly, though, I feel like I have so much more to learn down here. There are all kinds of things I still want to do, and my Spanish still has a way to go. I´m lucky to have a job, an apartment, a neighborhood to explore, a beach only a few hours away (the water may be brown, but hey, the world isn´t perfect), and easy access to a lot of amazing places. Also, I´ve finally decided that I´m tired of being the office joke, and I´ve enlisted a tutor to smooth out the rough edges on my language skills.

I´m moving along, and I´ve now learned some incredibly useful vocabulary such as ´´turnstile´´ (molinete . . . which actually makes so much sense because a molino is a grinder), ´´I hit my funny bone,´´ (me maté el codo) and Flinstones (picapiedras). As you can see, these are all very essential parts of my Spanish training which I would never have learned in the U.S., and clearly they will help my acquire my dream job one day. (Right?)

So, here´s to four more months in South America! And an announcement for all of you: Ellen just discovered a 688 US dollar flight to Buenos Aires. Wowzers. Email me for more info.

Palermo, te amo.

Palermo, I love you.

Hello!

It has now been almost three weeks since I officially moved into my new place, so I feel authorized to publicly proclaim my love for Palermo, my new neighborhood. Not that my old barrio, Villa Crespo, didn't have its own charms (hmm at the moment only one comes to mind and that's a cheese shop that was oh-so-cleverly named ''Villa Queso." Haha? Get it? Sounds like Villa Crespo? No? Hmm . . .) but I didn't realize that living on such a crazy huge street was really wearing me down.

Let's just say my old digs were more ''I live with Rockville Pike outside my bedroom window and it's rush hour all the time!" and my new place is a lot more cobblestony, leafy and generally pleasant. Amanda and Ellen helped me discover that we also have the cheapest ice cream shop in Buenos Aires at my doorstep (Dulce de leche ice cream, anyone? No? What about dulce de leche with cherries? Dulce de leche with chocolate chips? Vanilla with dulce de leche pieces? Or if that's not Argentine enough for you, dulce de leche with dulce de leche pieces?). I've also struck up a ''relationship'' with the old lady who spends her entire day peering out the yellow-grated window in her first floor apartment across the street. (Who is she watching?) And by relationship I mean she knows that I know that she's watching everyone.

Besides the one night when the couple in the building next door decided to have a not-so-private break up between the hours of 5 am and 6 am, and besides the day that I broke the toilet (long story), everything has been going swimmingly.

I spent Sunday photoadventuring, and was happy to discover that someone else felt the need to proclaim their love for Palermo (see photo above).

Above: Sunset from our living room.


Above: Spotted in my neighborhood.


Above: The graffitti fairy doing her work to make Palermo
look interesting (check out the can of spray paint in her hand).

New views

Above: View from the bedroom window in my new apartment.

Ellen says chau . . .

I sent Ellen packing today :( and in 24 hours she'll be back at home. She'll kill me for posting this picture, but I like it - - here she is taking one of many, many siestas on the couch (otherwise known as her bed) in my new apartment.

Come one, come all . . .

Above: Street art in Bariloche, Argentina

It's January! And in Argentina, that means just one thing: TOURISTS.

Ellen and I returned to Buenos Aires a few days ago to find that the city had nearly emptied of actual Argentines. Chasing cooler temperatures and wider pastures, most locals have wisely picked up their mate gourds and their thermoses and headed out, not to return until late February. (I swear, one day I will wax poetic about mate. For now, just think of it as the tea that Argentines - and apparently Uruguayans - drink like it's God's greatest creation).

In the place of actual Argentines, Buenos Aires has suddenly become home to whole new group of city dwellers, a group that favors those nifty zip-off pants, teva sandals, cameras with lenses that double as weapons, and North Face gear in all colors and varieties. The amount of English spoken in the city has doubled in the past week.

Little do they know, these tourists are really here to make us expats feel better about ourselves. Normally we're the ones getting on the subte in the wrong direction and then getting stuck in the station at the end of the line. Or the ones who get so distracted practicing Spanish with the "nice" taxi driver that we don't realize he's driving in circles so he can charge us more. We're the ones who huddle "discretely" in the corner to hide the fact that (shocker!) we still sometimes use a map to get around. We make pathetic attempts at using local street slang, have no clue how to prepare mate the "right" way, and we always have strange requests at restaurants (sin carne?!?).

So, the arrival of fresh meat in Buenos Aires (read: tourists) gives this particular expat a bit of satisfaction. Does this subte line take us to Constitution? Someone asks in broken Spanish. Si! I reply. Which way to the fair? How much does that cost? That way! Quince pesos! I'm so weathered and knowledgeable I can barely stand it. I'm particularly cruel and I've discovered that if the music is loud enough and the drinks are strong enough, I can convince Americans with poor Spanish skills that I am indeed an Argentine. This has only happened once but I'm considering it a victory.

In short, I'm finally starting to peel the "strange short foreigner girl" sticker off of my forehead. I'm pretty sure it will never go away completely (and honestly, I'm not sure I'd want it to), but finally settling into the city isn't half bad.

Above: Lago Puelo near El Bolson, Argentina.

And some updates: Ellen leaves town tomorrow to head back to the land of dollars and peanut butter. Sad! She has lots of stories to tell about Pablo the Chilean who grows suspicious-looking green leafy plants in his lakeside house, a Christmas dinner with so many different types of people that it resembled a UN meeting, and a New Years that will certainly not be forgotten.

More pictures of our trip are here: Pictures from Patagonia. You don't have to have facebook to see them.

If you want to see what we did on New Years, go to Josh's blog. Mom, please note the part near the end where your dear daughter (read: me) arrives at the disco and chugs a great big giant . . . water. Yes, water. You trained me right.

Above: Spotted while hiking Chile.

Last Saturday in La Plata

La Catedral, La Plata, Argentina

Good news ! Ellen has arrived and we are now introducing her to the kilombo that is Argentina.

Pictures above are from a little outing on Saturday to La Plata, a city just outside of BA.

We leave on our big trip tomorrow, so blog posts will be a little sporadic.

Besos a todos!

Julie

The times they are a-changin'

. . . says Bob Dylan.

And indeed changes are about in the Argentina compound. For various (amiable!) reasons, my roommates and I have decided to go our separate ways once we ring in the New Year. For me, that means I'll be moving across town to Palermo into a new apartment with two new roommates. The apartment has red walls, a 13th-floor view of the city and a giant giraffe in the living room (it's wooden). New year, new people, new neighborhood, new subte line . . . new adventures.

Alana and Drew on our terrace in October.

As I discovered yesterday, however, my new apartment will also involve learning some new skills, i.e. finally learning to light a gas stove. Pathetic and embarrassing yes, but I have avoided those light-with-a-lighter gas stoves for years, succumbing to my fear that I will light my face on fire and gracefully allowing someone else (Grace Koerber in Italy, for one) to do the lighting themselves. Something about gas and fire gives me the heebie jeebies. It's kind of like driving stick shift. I should reallllly know how to do it, but . . .

Anyway, I went to visit Mechi, my new roommate, yesterday, and she showed me the ins-and-outs of the apartment, including the gas stove and oven. Unless I want to eat PB&J for the next couple months, it looks like it's light or perish for me.

Drinking mate on our terrace in October. One day I will explain mate to you all, but I believe it warrants a whole blog post, so just sit tight for now.

In other news: I am officially on vacation since my school is on break until Jan. 5. Ellen arrives tomorrow, and on Thursday we take off for southern Argentina and Chile. I am trying to convince her to go horseback riding once we arrive in Chile, but if anyone remembers the last time she got on a horse (sorry this is mostly a joke for my uncles), perhaps we should just stick to bicycles.

No anda el subte ni el agua, pero . . . bueno

I can't emphasize enough how much living in Argentina means learning to live with life's little inconveniences. The waters shuts off, the subte doesn't work, but hey, the wine flows freely and we've got lots of beef, right?

Yesterday I awoke to discover that there was just enough water left in the tap to . . . brush my teeth. After that - nothing. Unfortunately for my coworkers, who spend most of the day with me, showering was out of this question. This wouldn't have been so bad, except I hadn't been able to pick up my clean clothes the day before. The owner of the laundromat down the street said he'd be open when I stopped by. But he wasn't. Starting to understand Argentina?

This morning I was sad to discover that my beloved subte station (beloved because it is a convenient 8-second walk from my apartment) was lockered shut. Due to a paro, or strike, unionists (gremialistas, perhaps my favorite Spanish word of all time) had shut down several subte lines. This left the 1.5 million people who typically ride the subte, well, subte-less. The government, as you can imagine, was not very happy. Neither was my boss when I arrived half an hour late.

This afternoon when I left work, Clarin announced that protestors had shut down major streets in the city center, complicating traffic on Avenida 9 de Julio, an 18-lane road that runs through downtown. Yes, 18 lanes, you read that right.

Anyway, besides good jokes, there are upsides to all this havoc. There are fantastic words to be learned from it (I think I've already introduced you to kilombo, meaning "head splitting chaos"). There are also free subte rides (the subte had returned to service when I came home from work today, but everyone was passing through for free). 

Lastly, there's  a new attitude about life: Well, if it - the water, the subte, the oven, the lights -doesn't work, it doesn't work. Go have a cafe and some medialunas (or better yet, ice cream and beer, a fascinatingly disgusting concoction I was recently introduced to). 

Maybe it will work later. Maybe.