tugzwell's blog

Wow, I’m not even sure where to begin! I’ve been trying to postpone posting this farewell post in the hope that doing so would maybe – just maybe – make me feel as though I don’t have only three weeks left in Buenos Aires, this wonderful, slightly-strange (usually in the best kind of way) city that I have come to call my home for more than three months now. Alas, it’s true that my time here is coming to an end, which is only making my head swim with a multitude of thoughts and fears about all the things I still need to see and visit in the next three weeks, the projects and tests that need to be completed before I leave, the planning that I still have to complete for my trip to Chile and Peru after the semester end… but most importantly, how to figure out a way to find myself back in South America in the next four or so years.
 
Anyways, I think I may be getting a little ahead of myself. I find it hard to think about the time I have left in the city presently when the future seems to loom ahead of me so frighteningly. When it comes to thinking about the most rewarding part of my experience in Buenos Aires, I think of a few different things. I am so glad to have been able to study Spanish here, and though I’m still far from fluent – not being able to understand half the jokes I’m told or talk to a pharmacist about medicine a few things among many others – I think I’ve made a good amount of progress here and will continue studying Spanish for the rest of my time at NYU. Besides the language, the most rewarding aspect of Buenos Aires has been the city itself and the people that inhabit it. I know that sounds like a really vague statement, but being able to navigate the intricate bus system here, give people directions in Spanish, coming to know so many different cafes, and having fantastic conversations with complete strangers – taxi drivers, retired teachers, foreign travelers, hostel workers, students, tango dancers, the list goes on – has made me really confident in my ability to adapt to a completely new city and environment.
 
This course has really helped me along in reaching these conclusions as well by forcing me to record my experiences (and I say force in the best kind of way!) and also move beyond them by pondering the different meanings associated with travel, as well as its different facets and the idea of travel as an art. However, I know that I have not been the most habitual blogger, for which I apologize, though this part of the experience has taught me that in order to become a more aware traveler, I need to make more time to record my experiences. In the end though, this course has been a fantastic way for me to feel connected to a larger community of fellow student travelers, and I’m glad to have had you all with me through thick and thin.
 
I could go on for pages and pages about my experience here and what it has taught me and what I’ll remember in the future, but I don’t want to make anyone fall asleep. The final thing I want to mention is that this experience has shown me that I’ve had a passion laying close to me for all these years, really hidden until this moment. I am completely in love with the Spanish language and learning about the multitude of cultures that speak it. Being here has shown me that this isn’t some passing fancy now and that it never was in the first place; I have been learning Spanish in bits and pieces since elementary school and even though I continue to struggle studying it now, I am totally dedicated to the challenge. And not just the challenge of the language, but the challenge that all of South and Central America hold for me as well.
 
I do want to travel as much of the world as I can before I die, but I’m pretty sure (and this makes me shake and smile and the same time as I write this) I have found a home here. Not necessarily in Buenos Aires, but somewhere in this continent definitely. When people ask me why I like to travel, the first thing I tell them is that travelling is in my blood. My great grandparents came from various part of Europe and eventually found their ways to England. My parents were both born in England, but realized that though it was their homeland, they could not call it home. Now they have found their happiness in California. My older brother realized that the US was not where he wanted to stay and has since lived in Berlin with his girlfriend and they are planning to move to Europe once again, this time for good. My family members have each found places with which they can identify and in which they are truly happy, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that South America may be that place for me. For me, my return to this continent (and this city) is not a question of if or how or why, but simply a question of when.

The first stop on my grand spring break adventure was Ushuaia, the self-proclaimed “El Fin Del Mundo” (The End of The World) situated in the southernmost region of Argentina, Tierra Del Fuego (Land of Fire). It’s a beautiful, wind-whipped town that feels slightly desolate and always looks as though it is covered by the shadow of a giant cloud – the colors of all the buildings slightly muted and everything a shade darker than you think it should be – even if the sun is shining and there are no clouds in the sky.
 
This is the town with the strongest connection to Antarctica, being the place from which all boat cruises depart, weighed down by hundreds of flushed foreign faces eager for an expensive adventure. A small town with two giant casinos, the larger of the two directly facing the harbor as well as a large shipwreck that seems to be in perfect condition (ropes still sway in the wind and lifesavers cling to both sides) except for the network of gaping, rusted holes on one side. A place where next to faded Argentine flags, most doors have large stickers plastered on them telling you one last time that the Falkland Islands are the Malvinas and they belong to Argentina, in case you had forgotten.
 
But all this is the town itself, and this collection of neat city blocks and small details is all placed in sharp relief against a backdrop of giant snowcapped mountains that create a strange rainbow of colors – white at the top, brownish-gray in the middle, followed by a deep red that fades into green at the very bottom. These mountains are all you can see when you step out of the airport and let the cold air and wind hit you for the first time, when you walk through the sloped streets, slick and shiny black from recent rain, when you take a tour on a boat that lurches through rough water and turn around to get a good look at it all – crushing the small candy dots that are cars and the pinprick steeples of churches with two fingers while not being able to wrap an entire hand around a single mountain.
 
And every single one of these mountains – there must be more than twenty peaks that you can see if you slowly spin in a half circle at the edge of town closest to the water – they all have names. They each have a name, and the taxi driver that picked you up from the airport pointed each one out to you and told you their names in Spanish, but you couldn’t remember all of them and the German stranger that you shared a cab with wasn’t helping record the names. All the names are lost except Cinco Hermanos (Five Brothers), but even though the five jagged peaks really do make sense of the name, all the names don’t matter. They are all made of earth, all surrounding the town, both cradling it from outside disturbances and at the same time, united against it, effectively cutting it off from the rest of civilization. 

In his collection of short stories and essays titled Labyrinths, Jorge Luis Borges characterizes Buenos Aires – his hometown and the place where he spent the majority of his life – as a place both muted in terms of physical appearance as well as personality. His Buenos Aires is built from the crumbling facades of European-style buildings and the silent tension between the bourgeoisie, growing more stagnant and unbearable as the country slowly crawls toward modernization. For Borges’, this city seems to be a place that contains nothing extraordinary in the present moment, though it has potential, if only its inhabitants recognize their worth and act on it. His hope for the city seems to fade a little more with each passing page though, as the years continue to move forward and he grows older without any signs of change occurring.
 
This focus on the ordinary and lackluster character is perfectly summarized in the opening paragraph of Borges’ short story titled The Zahir. He explains that in Buenos Aires, the zahir is an “ordinary coin” (156) with which any person can buy a glass of whiskey, as the main character in the story does. However, after mentioning this mundane fact about money, he weaves an elaborate history of all the amazing things that the word “zahir” once represented – tigers in Guzerat (?) in the 18th century, blind holy men in Java, and a historic astrolabe in Persia. This glorious word and thing have since been reduced to nothing more than a coin, something insignificant, passed from one person to another in automatic daily transactions, completely routine and impersonal. The word is no longer special, and it seems to be that Borges believes the city shares the same fate.
 
Later in the same story, and after characterizing the city itself, Borges moves on to the people that occupy its space. He discusses the recent death of a notable, upper-class women named Clementina Villar, and is truly saddened by her passing. She is a perfect example of an Argentine socialite, and Borges says “Her life was exemplary, yet she was ravaged unremittingly by an inner despair” (157). This dead woman represents Borges’ opinion on the health of Argentine society – everything looks fine at a glance, but on closer inspection, everyone is suffering and the city only suffocates them further. He focuses on his perceptions of the city’s inhabitants so closely that we become aware that for Borges, the people are the city. The physical city has already begun to fade, and now the people are slowly disappearing into the background with it.
 
When speaking of the physical spaces within Buenos Aires, Borges uses fantastic diction to make the reader feel as though these places are actually fading away, falling apart in the mind of the author and no longer quite tangible – like trying to grasp onto smoke with one’s hands. Though this isn’t quite apparent in The Zahir, it cannot be ignored in a different short story titled The Waiting, in which Borges describes a residential area of Buenos Aires as a “square plot of earth” with “respectable houses with their little balconies” and “dull lozenges of the paint” (165). The city is plain and lacks any real personality, and though it tries its best to look respectable, it is still falling apart. Borges’ view of the city, as well as his earlier opinions on its inhabitants, don’t really fit with how I view Buenos Aires. I see color flashing through the streets when I ride on various buses and constantly pass by vibrant Argentines, their conversations a blur of fast Spanish and grand gesticulations. However, when I think of Borges’ descriptions and what I have seen of and experienced in the city, I can feel the little similarities. When I look at the once bright aqua of a building’s front, now faded to light sea foam and peeling, I can’t help think of Borges and his frustration with the city that seemed to be slowly falling apart – bit by bit – in front of him while no one else took any notice.

Thinking about what tips to give other students who plan to study abroad in Buenos Aires is a little mind numbing because I feel like there are so many, yet that I will forget to mention all of the most important ones. However, to start off I would just like to say, dear potential study abroad student: COME TO BUENOS AIRES. I think it is a wonderful idea to study abroad here if you think you can manage a little culture shock and don’t mind having to speak a different language daily. As NYU’s only study abroad site in South America, Buenos Aires is the perfect place for an adventurous student, and often seems to be overshadowed by all the programs in Europe (no offense to anyone studying in Europe). Also, the staff here is probably the friendliest you will meet in NYU and will be on a first name basis with you a few weeks in.
 
Not only will you have to learn to speak Argentine Spanish, but also get to experience a culture that we, as North Americans, really don’t know much about. I’m sure that a few people are probably shaking their heads at that statement right now, but it is so true. How many things can you say about Argentina? What do you know about besides the details of the last dictatorship, if even that? I’m going to be completely honest, I didn’t know that much about Argentina before I came (partly why I chose to study abroad here), but these past three months have really opened me up to the differences between this culture and my own, both good and bad. For one thing, the political culture of this country is completely different and continues to fascinate me every day. Don’t be surprised to see (or possibly find yourself in) protests, strikes or political rallies here. Argentine citizens relate to politics and the government in a very physical and direct manner that is something we don’t really experience in the United States.
 
I think I’ve been a little vague up to this point, so let me get down to brass tacks. One of the most important lessons to learn here is that things are not as cheap as you think, though they are usually cheaper than in the US. When I first came here, I kept miscalculating the exchange rate and thought that things were expensive, but once I fixed this problem I actually started to mentally devalue money and spend more than I should have. On that note, traveling in Argentina (and South America) is more expensive than you would think. Far more expensive. Always keep in mind that a one-way plane flight to a different Argentine region (Patagonia, Salta, etc.) will most likely cost you over $200. A round trip ticket for a 20 hour long distance bus ride will cost you about $175, so make sure to plan your trips wisely in order to save some money (especially since student discounts are essentially nonexistent here).
 
When it comes to housing, stay in a homestay (unless you don’t speak any Spanish) because you will become far more immersed in everyday Argentine customs and cultural norms than if you were to just live in one of the apartments here. Not to mention, you may make a few lasting connections with your family or at least come away with a good experience. However, BIG word of advice, do not stay in a homestay that you do not like! Mention it as soon as you can, even if it’s just the food that bothers you. NYU has the power to change it and doesn’t ever mind doing so. Oh, and another important thing to remember, that I am currently experiencing as I type: bring some warm clothing. It will not stay summer forever. I made the mistake of only bring two sweaters and no tights and now have had to buy a few things. You won’t need a giant winter coat, but bring something to keep you warm or suffer the consequences.
 
Besides all that, I would suggest brushing up on Spanish before you arrive so that you don’t feel as stressed out when you get here. Also, though I said before that you should keep in mind that travel is expensive here, that does not mean that it isn’t worth it! When you come, you have to go to Patagonia! The landscapes are so varied and dramatic, with everything from breathtaking glaciers to arid deserts. It’s not to be missed. As for the city itself, I would say that you try to walk as often as you can, provided that where you are going is decently safe (Another tip: always be alert as to what type of area you are walking in and keep an eye on whatever you are carrying. If you follow this rule – meaning no wandering the city completely drunk – the chances of you getting robbed are slim. Students usually get robbed here because they aren’t paying attention to what is going on around them). Walking is a great way to get to know Buenos Aires, and your feet will unwittingly bring you to some kind of gem – whether it be a great café, book store, cemetery, or museum – before you know it.

In my two months in Buenos Aires, I have had an array of fleeting encounters with travelers and Argentines alike, all of which have had an effect on me. The countless strangers I have asked for directions that lead me to the right path, half the time offering to walk with me; the taxi driver that talked to me about music and the existence of god, showing me his calluses, while wide eyed and tipsy, I spoke back in free-flowing Spanish; the young porteños on the bus that clapped and cheered for me when I gave directions to a few Israeli tourists of whom they had been making fun; Rodrigo and Sergio, the bus drivers with whom I shared cookies and mate as we drove through the desert at night; Charlie, the Uruguayan hostel worker in Bariloche that gave me all the tips about the city that I could ever need and kissed me on the cheek when I left, a sign of friendship here.
 
The list goes on, and I am leaving out my names and descriptions, but as I think more about this topic, I realize that the person who has most recently left the deepest impression on me is Augustín, a old hippy in whose hostel I staying during the last leg of my Patagonia spring break adventure in El Bolsón, a small town in the middle of an impressive mountain valley that is known for its popular artisanal fair and as a center of hippy culture. Thirty-five years ago, Augustín came to El Bolsón and bought a huge plot of land on which he and his wife eventually built five houses – one for the family, one for Augustín’s mother, one for their eldest son, and two that eventually became the hostel. When I came to stay at the hostel for two nights, I was the only traveler there (!!!) and had an entire house to myself – the first house that Augustín built and in which two of his sons were born.
 
When I met Augustín, I immediately felt right at home. He came to visit me inside the little house, made sure I had enough milk and oatmeal, asked if I was warm enough, and then proceeded to read my Chinese horoscope out loud from a book that he lifted of a shelf. Though I was in a completely different setting from any that I had been used to before, his relaxed manner and the way in which he was willing to share his land, home, and food with me were just what I needed at the end of a trip filled with constant movement. My conversations with him and my time in his hostel really steadied me and gave me the chance to just slow down and meditate on the small moments I witnessed while staying in El Bolsón. This experience and my short interactions with Augustín have made me realize that it doesn’t take a huge effort to make a person feel comfortable or “at home,” one just needs to take the time to show that person that they are welcome into the new place which they enter.

My “epiphany” isn’t so much an outright “Oh my god, I have never thought of that before!” type of moment, but more of a nagging series of thoughts in the back of my mind that, when finally vocalized by another person whose opinion was credible, had the real weight and force to make me examine my time spent in Buenos Aires and recognize the fact that I am still not free from all of the preconceptions that I brought with me to this city, this country, this continent.
 
Well, I recently had drinks with an older Colombian man, and at one point in our conversation (keep in mind that we are talking in Spanish and I’m only an intermediate speaker, meaning that I am not at all eloquent and have a semi-pathetic vocabulary), I mentioned that I would like to live in South America eventually, possibly even Buenos Aires. And when I said “live,” I meant settle down here, have kids here, grow old here…at least that’s what I think I meant. He asked me why I wanted to live here and my response was… well it wasn’t much of a response. I told him that I felt more connected to the culture here than I did to my own back home and that it was something about the people – they seem friendlier, more open and willing to start a conversation with or help a stranger.
 
His answer to me was an honest one, without pretension or condescension: you don’t know this culture. You’re only here for four months as a student and it takes years to know one city, one country. What could I say to that? Though I love all the experiences I’ve had in Buenos Aires and Argentina – and it’s not like I regret coming here or anything like that – they have ultimately been fleeting and piecemeal. I have had windows into Argentine culture and understand the way some cultural customs work as well as daily life. But my knowledge of this place still has so many holes; for example, one thing that always throws things into perspective is that Buenos Aires has 38 or so barrios and I have set foot in less than 10 of them.
 
My time here has been split between getting to know the city, adapting to daily life as a student, and slowly shedding my North American preconceptions of Argentina and “South America” as I become more informed through my daily interactions with people, the media, and anything else that crosses my path. But that answer, and all these thoughts now, lead me to question what our motives and are goals are when we study abroad for a semester. What do we hope to gain and what remains beyond our understanding by the time we prepare to leave? Do we always retain an outsider’s perspective as foreign travelers, or is there a point when we finally break through to the other side?

In the travelogue In Patagonia, Bruce Chatwin – an English writer and traveler that died in 1989 – drifts through the vast, windswept region of southern Argentina. His journey to Patagonia fulfills a lifelong dream that began at a tender age. In fact, the book starts with the moment when his desire to visit Patagonia first took hold of him. He describes a large wooden cabinet in his grandmother’s home that contained a variety of curious objects from all over the globe. He sees a leathery piece of skin inside, and finds out that it supposedly came from a brontosaurus in Patagonia. The way in which he represents Patagonia as a mysterious, almost magical, place is what makes his description stand out. Chatwin has the admirable ability to turn words into visceral experience, and this continues throughout the book.
 
However, this book focuses on Patagonia, and only a few of his short chapters are dedicated to Buenos Aires in particular, though they are small gems. His first sentence frames the city perfectly: “The history of Buenos Aires is written in its telephone directory” (4). This may seem insignificant, but Buenos Aires is a city essentially created and brought to life by all of the different immigrants that made new homes for themselves here. I knew this before reading the book, but his descriptions of these immigrants have helped me pay closer attention to the people that inhabit this city as well as their personal histories and how they contribute to this social dynamic.
 
These few vibrant descriptions of Argentina’s capital give way to Chatwin’s intriguing explanations and histories of the southern region, which seems to slightly puzzle him throughout his stay (18). Chatwin often focuses on the tense relationship between nature and the different people, mostly farmers, which inhabit Patagonia. He uses this technique to personify the alien, constantly shifting landscape that is as much a character as its gruff inhabitants. This representation of Patagonia is completely necessary to the reader’s understanding of Patagonia as a place and a concept; to travel to the region, one is forced to be truly to travel in it. The vast distances and small towns make the journey just as important to the experience as the various destinations.
 
By placing such importance on the landscape of the region and always describing its inhabitants in connection to it, the reader comes to better understand the pride that Argentines have for their country and their stubbornness to exist successfully within it. Chatwin’s book has not only expanded my understanding of the collective Argentine psyche in this way, but also made me want to travel through the region myself in order to really comprehend the significance that his words carry. Indeed, this book has made me so curious that I am going to travel through it during spring break, hoping to experience a little of what Chatwin did along the way.

One of the first things that people learn about me is usually the fact that I love sugar, chocolate specifically, though nothing sweet is ever safe around me. I know that I'm not the only one to label myself as a sugar addict, but I don't think people understand the extent to which I consume sugar and chocolate. One Christmas, I was given a family size Cadbury chocolate bar (about the equivalent to 10 or 12 normal Hershey bars) and polished it off in less than four hours. I've also been known to eat an entire jar of Nutella on occasion, and though it makes me feel a bit sick by the end, I EVENTUALLY DO IT AGAIN.
 
I have tried not to eat chocolate daily in Buenos Aires, but this has been a complete failure so far. There is artisanal ice cream to be enjoyed, alfajors (cookie, chocolate, and dulce de leche glory) to be munched, and an assortment of sweets in every bakery (I swear there is one on almost every block) to be tried and tested by my greedy mouth. I'm always on the lookout for new places to sample dessert in this city, and it never takes very long to find a new one. Like I said, bakeries are everywhere, as well as specialty cake shops and ice cream parlors. Buenos Aires is actually filled with places to get ice cream, ranging from the big chains like Freddo and Volta to small local businesses that constantly rotate their delicious flavors. 
 
My favorite place to get ice cream in this city – and a truly “great good place” as seen by the many faces of their satisfied customers and the buena onda (good vibe) that it has – is an ice cream parlor called Tufic in the heart of the trendy Palermo neighborhood. The entire shop (and its outside seating) has the color scheme of white and red – clean and colorful – running through it. It sits on a corner of the street and its three walls facing the outside world are mostly made of glass. You can’t help but curiously peek inside as you walk by, especially since the door is almost always open. I usually get momentarily overwhelmed every time I walk inside the shop because of the sheer amount of ice cream. They must have over 30 flavors, each one a different color – ranging from the pastel purple of uva (grape) to the bright green of mente (mint) – and each piled high with a swirling pointed tip, practically spilling out of their containers.
 
Usually when I go, I order a ¼ kilo of ice cream, which may sound like too much, but it’s the right amount for anyone that really, truly enjoys filling themselves up on ice cream. After sampling as many flavors as I can before the guy helping me gets annoyed, I order three different flavors and watch it all get neatly compacted into a container. Chocolate amargo (bitter chocolate) and pomelo (grapefruit) are my favorites thus far, though I’ve only tried a little of all the shop has to offer. Once I’ve got ice cream in my hand, I just like to go sit outside in the breezy Buenos Aires night and people watch. Squealing children outrunning their parents to the store front, couples walking down the street hand in hand, and cars racing along on the cobbled streets as fast as they can – this corner is the perfect setting for relaxing and just taking in the Buenos Aires atmosphere.

A few weeks ago, I make the trek out to San Telmo to visit MAMBA, El Museo de Arte Moderno en Buenos Aires. It was the perfect opportunity to dive back into the art world that I had so cruelly neglected for a month. I planned out my entire bus route to make sure I didn't get lost, but of course, the girl with absolutely no sense of direction, hops off the bus only to discover that she has no idea where she is. There were no street signs to be seen, but a few kind strangers helped me on my way as usual. I arrived in the museum’s gorgeous open hallway with sweat dripping down my face and looking like a complete fool when I asked about the price of admission (it’s free).
 
A grand metal stairway led me to the topmost of the museum’s floors. I was quite shocked to find myself surrounded by paintings and sculptures that similarly echoed American and European minimalism art. I thought I had just stepped into one of the galleries in MoMA that I always breeze right through because Mondrian’s solid lines and a slew of other artist’s geometric abstractions hardly interest me. Seeing art similar to this in Buenos Aires, that I have come to know for all its quirks and genuine colorful character, seemed so out of place.
 
These flat geometric shapes, hard lines, and muted earth tones reminded of a class discussion that occurred at the very start of the semester. The professor had said that at one point in Argentina’s recent history, European formalism in art was adopted by local artists and subsequently idolized as a path to a more “civilized” society. I couldn’t get this thought out of my head as I walked through the exhibit, and though I tried to really focus on a few individual art pieces and attempt to know them on their own terms, without comparison to other art works, I failed miserably. I felt like they had nothing to tell me and wasn’t really sure what the artists wanted to convey through their pieces. However, this was not completely the fault of the art pieces, but also my own for entering that gallery with a mind full of preconceived notions and generalizations about Latin American art. Leaving that space made me realize that I still have a long way to go as a thoughtful, critical art viewer.
 
Feeling confused and disappointed, I made my way to the basement gallery and upon entering, was transported to an entirely different place. The works in this room were very contemporary compared to the room before, and also created on a far grander scale. Gone were the sharp lines and limits of the canvas, instead replaced by silver glitter and text applied straight to the museums foundations. Brown touch sensitive paneling covered an entire wall, and since I was the only person in the room (seriously) I took complete advantage of it, wildly sliding my fingers and arms over the brown material, creating a path of stark white through my body’s applied pressure which then faded almost instantly. It was an intriguing piece that spoke to the transience of physical human presence and our obsessive need to try and leave a “permanent,” visible mark on society; needless to say, I really enjoyed it.
 
However, the piece that interested me the most in the gallery was a short video art piece shown within a pitch-black room. The setting was a pale blue and pink rooftop in an area, definitely within South America, that was very compact, with other roofs and buildings in the background as far as the eye could see. But, the focus was this particular roof, from which the camera never strayed, surveying the whole scene from afar. The sun slowly rises over the rooftop, and eventually a person comes out on to the roof. More people come, and we begin to realize that we are watching a daily, though intimate, family gathering. There is a small boy playing with a toy off to the side, a young woman talking to a young man, a grandmother figure styling the hair of a middle-aged woman. Others come and go, and the scene plays out in front of us, until the sun slowly begins to set and the roof empties of its inhabitants. In this work, I experienced the daily routine of a family not unlike my own, although the place and the characters were completely different, and came to really understand feel at ease with them. Anxious voyeuristic feelings ebbed as the sun reached its zenith, and disappeared as it set on the family and myself. It was a feeling that I have experienced on a larger scale as I slowly become increasingly accustomed to life in Buenos Aires.

Though I found MacCannell’s thesis and main arguments to be interesting, I feel that his elaboration on Goffman’s “front-back dichotomy” (597) is too clear-cut to completely apply to Buenos Aires. This city, and South America on a larger scale, are not “highly developed tourist settings” (601) compared to places in Europe. More often than not, tourists and porteños find themselves occupying the same places together, neither infringing on the reality of the other, but rather, enhancing it. We brush shoulders on the colectivo (bus), sip coffee in the same cafés, lay next to each other in the parks, and dodge the same dog crap along pock-marked sidewalks.
 
Simply put, most spaces here are not usually clearly divided into “front regions” and “back regions,” instead oscillating somewhere between the two (590). Though thoroughly touristy destinations like Caminito in La Boca (Remember those colorful houses?) exist, the fería in San Telmo attracts a good mix of different people. Whereas most cities have strains and connected bustling areas for tourists to explore and seek their “authenticity,” such places here seem to be more isolated, allowing for greater exploration of local authenticity.
 
However, that being said, this past weekend I explored what may possibly be Buenos Aires’ best examples of “front” and “back” regions, strangely intermingling with one another since they lay side by side: Puerto Madero and La Reserva Ecológica (The Ecological Reserve). Puerto Madero was a booming port at the turn of the century that was abandoned shortly after its creation and left to fall to ruin until the government saved it. The area has now become extremely developed (think residential sky scrapers), not to mention expensive, and is very controversial among porteños because of its artificiality. Right behind this small area lays La Reserva Ecológica, a beautiful reserve filled with meadows, parrots, cheap food, and frolicking children. The reserve is definitely a popular place for people that live in Puerto Madero itself, but it draws in tons of peoples from other barrios and, in my opinion, contains the “authenticity” that its neighbor lacks.
 
First, the transition from the dusty railroad tracks to Puerto Madero was astounding. Suddenly, clean red brick buildings, manicured lawns, and expensive restaurants surrounded me. All of Buenos Aires’ quirks and beautiful architecture gave way to a nouveau riche graveyard. The area completely lived up to my expectations based on the advice of porteños; there was nothing in the area except overpriced food and hordes of tourists taking jumping photos on the famous Puente de la Mujer (Bridge). This indeed was “the case wherein mystification is required to create a sense of “real” reality” as MacCannell expressed (591). As I walked farther into the area, I reached an intensely landscaped park, increasingly disliking the area with each step, until I descended a set of steps and landed near the Reserve. Whereas the area behind me had “announcing and revealing” (591) a truth untrue to the city’s character, this beautiful, luscious emerald sea was a reality. Though the region did not necessarily reveal any “secrets” to me, I was finally able to “move off stage, or into the “setting,” and have the “real truth…begin to reveal itself” (592). The truth being that Buenos Aires contains a diverse mix of people that together can enjoy nature and never take for granted the reality of a beautiful landscape that lay before them.

So far in the semester, it has been somewhat difficult for me to maintain a concrete routine for certain daily rituals – like waking up in the morning, showering, eating breakfast, and least importantly, sleeping. This is mainly due to the fact that, currently, on Mondays and Wednesdays my first class is at 1:45 pm, while on Tuesdays and Thursdays, my first class is at 9 am. In addition to that, there have already been two holidays during these (less than) three weeks of class and subsequent, mandatory make-up days and events.
 
That being said, and average day for me here begins with groggily waking up, getting ready for the day, and then heading downstairs for “breakfast.” I love breakfast and am a firm believer in the idea that it’s the most important meal of the day, but Argentina doesn’t agree. My breakfast everyday consists of tostadas (toast) with butter and jam, coffee, fresh orange juice, and a piece of fruit to go. I like this food, but it just isn’t enough to sustain me. By 10 am on Tuesdays and Thursdays I’m already hungry and have to run to the market or empanadería (EMPANADAS!) across the street and buy something. I am so thankful that empanadas are plentiful and cheap here because I honestly don’t know what I would do without them.
 
After breakfast, I catch the bus to school, which takes about 10 minutes, if that. Though they can sometimes be unreliable (it’s frustrating to watch FIVE of the same number bus going the other direction at the same time when you’ve been waiting for 15 minutes), they’re fast, super cheap (about 28 cents per ride!), and can get you practically anywhere in the city. Once my classes are over, I either go home, slowly do my homework and possibly go to a café for a while, or I go on some kind of mini-adventure. So far this has ranged from going to bookstores, vintage stores, museums, monuments and the like.
 
Then comes dinner, which is the complete opposite of breakfast. I usually eat at 9 or 9:30 pm, which is completely normal here (and suits me well), and it lasts for more than an hour because my host mother loves to have conversations over dinner (The perfect opportunity to practice my Spanish!). First I usually eat a big helping of soup, then a main dish – last night I had these delicious meatballs in yellow rice. And at the end of every dinner, my host mother offers me a banana with dulce de leche for dessert, and by offer I mean insist until I give in. The food is amazing, but it’s a little too rich to eat every day. I really have to figure out how to ask for more vegetables in a polite way.
 
On the weekends, I go and see new things in the city with my two very good friends. We make a point to see something new every weekend, and so far it has been great. Saturday nights are special too; since we don’t get dinner we find different, cheap restaurant to eat at each weekend, by which I mean we get full meals and wine for about $14. As for Sundays specifically, I love going to a fería (fair) to pick up souvenirs or just people watch.
 
As for other aspects of life here that don’t occur daily, I have mixed feelings. Laundry here is a little more expensive than in the states, about $5, but everything is washed and dried for you and then ready for pick-up at the end of the day. Also, I’ve found that other things here can be surprisingly expensive. For example, sunscreen, extremely important since it’s summer right now, is about $14 for a cheap Argentine brand. Sometimes it depends on the product, but it also depends on if the product is imported. Argentina has high import taxes, so provided you can actually find the thing you’re looking for, you might have to pay serious money for it. I recently found this out when my Apple laptop charger stopped working properly. Here, a new one costs $200 (US), whereas they’re only $80 back home!

I often like to imagine myself being a confident public speaker, cracking jokes left and right, the “life” of any given conversation. In reality though, I’m delusional. When it comes to talking to strangers in English, I usually become very self-conscious and sometimes stutter slightly. Now in Buenos Aires, 90% of my interactions with other human beings take place in Spanish. To say the least, communication can be frustrating.
 
The other day, for example, I found myself caught in torrential downpour without an umbrella and still about fifteen blocks from my home-stay. To make matters worse, I was carrying a bunch of books in my bag and knew it wouldn’t take long for all of them to become a soggy mess. I ran a kiosk and right as I opened my mouth to speak to the owner, I realized I had no idea how to say plastic bag in Spanish. I found myself mired by my own limited vocabulary, quickly becoming more frustrated as the calm porteño before me slowly raised his left eyebrow ever higher. Eventually, I got a few plastic bags and made it home, soaked but content, but this small moment of frustration is one of many here.
 
Though I find having conversations in Spanish here to be quite difficult, I am glad that porteños are so patient with me. When receiving directions after having asked for them, which I do basically every day without fail, they usually see the confused look on my face and repeat what they just said a little slower and in a more pronounced manner. However, these exchanges are usually ended by a phrase I’ve begun to loathe, ¿Entendés? (Do you understand?). I’ve mainly just started hating this because I don’t always understand, but I’m too stubborn to just be honest and say that I don’t know what they’re saying. However, I have found one thing that helps in conversations without fail.
 
In Buenos Aires, body language and hand gestures are extremely important aspects of local culture. This comes in handy when I don’t completely understand directions someone has given me out don’t know the meaning of a certain word. Whether fluid movements or jerking motions, gesturing can help you get a point across here. One of my favorite little motions that I’ve come across here involves coffee. I thought of it the second I read part of Botton’s text: “To condemn ourselves for these minute concerns is to ignore how rich in meaning details may be” (75). In this city, you can just walk into a café, make eye contact with a waiter, and use a simple one-handed motion to tell them what kind of coffee you want. It really is a small detail, I know, but it says so much about the laid-back, relaxed culture here and the fact that it’s beginning to grow on me.

Not long before I arrived in Buenos Aires, I made a few last-ditch, desperate efforts to learn more about the country in which I planned to spend my next four months. However, these efforts barely scraped the surface, and being the visual thinker that I am, I found myself entranced by all sorts of images of the city and its inhabitants. One in particular stood out – the colorful, haphazard houses of La Boca.
 
Well, that’s not entirely true actually. There was no one image that held my gaze, but a mass of images of La Boca with different details and shot from various angles. Together they created my foreigner’s perception of the city – bold porteños speaking with both hands and mouths, passion pervading every inch of flesh and stone, and color everywhere all the time. Color, passion, life! Just what I needed after a truly arduous, testing semester in New York. Buenos Aires, with the colors of La Boca, would be my haven from a disenchanted existence in “the best city in the world.”
 
However, when I finally arrived in Buenos Aires – late and staying in an awful homestay (I switched into another two days later) – my vision began to crumble. It didn’t totally shatter until the next day when I visited La Boca on a bus tour with NYU. Just as colorful as I had imagined, but before my feet could even make contact with uneven cobblestone, my few minutes to explore were prefaced with the facts that La Boca is one of Buenos Aires poorest areas (with a villa – slum – not too far away) and theft is common. Well, no worries I guess. It still looks beautiful. But guess what? Those striking colors only exist there because they were left over from shipyards and lifted by the area’s habitants. And that interesting use of corrugated metal? It was scrap metal and is far from being the ideal material with which to build a house: in the summers the houses are way too hot, and in the winters they freeze.
 
I realized something in that instant that I can only really articulate now by lending from the words of Botton. Like his vision of Barbados, the “profusion of images… made it strangely harder for me to see the” Buenos Aires “I had come to find” (13). Writing this post late and having extra time to consider my vision of this city before I arrived and as it stand now, I understand that I can’t force my perceived notions of “my ideal city” on one which I have never visited and about which I know next to nothing. I wasn’t totally unaware of this back home in LA, but I didn’t want to face the truth. I thought I would be revived upon entering the city, more calm, happy and passionate than ever before. But the idea that I would be any different from how I usually am or that the city would accept me – a solo foreign particle – with arms wide open is absurd. Now that my original naïve vision has been crushed, I’m rebuilding and slowing piecing together a new one in which Buenos Aires is the subject, not myself. Keeping this in mind, I want to end with the quote from Botton that I plan to keep in mind during this semester: “…The state of the skies and the appearance of our dwellings can never on their own underwrite our joy or condemn us to misery” (25).

Today on my 30 or so minute walk home, I decided to look for El Ateneo, a giant bookstore housed in a renovated theater and one of BsAs famous places to visit. However, though it was on Sante Fe (which I take to get home) and Callao - two LARGE streets - I still managed to find myself stumbling from block to block. Thankfully, after asking a friendly security guard I made it to my destination, which didn't disappoint whatsoever. But oh, its times like these that I wish I had a good sense of direction! Whether in Los Angeles (yes, my home town), New York, London, or Buenos Aires, I just can't stop myself from getting utterly, hopelessly lost.

That being said, Buenos Aires is definitely the most frustrating city to navigate that I have encountered thus far in my blip of an existence. In my experience, this is mainly due to a lack of street signs, but the fact that I'm only intermediate in Spanish doesn't help either. The combination of confusing directions and a lack of streets signs (or god forbid, a faded and cracked one, which are everywhere) really adds to my stress when walking around the city or actually trying to make it to a specified destination. I've been told (by NYU and porteños - locals - alike) that you should really avoid trying to look lost or pull out a map in Buenos Aires since it might make you more prone to being robbed, and though I don't know have much truth there is to this, I can't get in out of my head and I don't really want to take my chances.

Besides the fear that I might get robbed or any other negative thoughts that cross my mind when navigating, I actually enjoy wandering around quite a bit. This city is full of all sorts of quirks - like all the random chunks of cement missing from the sidewalk - as well as some very interesting street art and political graffiti. It's feels really liberating to just walk and wonder. A continuous stream of images of the people and places that create, that are this wonderful city are all I need to keep my feet moving and my mind ebbing and flowing from small personal relections to moments of silence for the beauty around me.

I have to say though, figuring out this city's streets has been made less difficult for me by the myriad of wonderful people that I ask for directions. Last Sunday, I encountered a wonderful woman when trying to make it home from the San Telmo fair (all sorts of kitschy and artisan stuff!). I had just reached the end of Calle Florida - where police swarm constantly - and emerged next to Plaza San Martin, which was practically deserted. This plaza is notorious for being filled with theives, and though I knew my house was nearby, I didn't want to risk wandering through the plaza to find it, especially since it's quite big. I asked a woman for directions, and she told me she was little unsure of my street's location, but offered to walk with me. The next five minutes were great, as my new friend explained the history of the area to me, places to see, others to avoid, and then some. Though the streets here may never make total sense to me, I know that I can rely on friendly perteños to help me on my way.

Try as I might, I can no longer skirt the inevitable. In a mere three days I’ll be off to Buenos Aires for the spring semester and won’t return to Los Angeles for nearly a year. Vague plans and daydreaming about a country I’ve never before entered are now being eclipsed by the creeping panic/excitement of trying to pack everything I want to bring in one suitcase and a slight pang of regret for not having seen more, done more, eaten more, over winter break.
 
My name is Emily. Though I am technically from Los Angeles, I grew up in the northeastern edge of the county in a small town called Sunland that straddles the foothills of the Angeles Mountains. My parents are both immigrants from England and since all of my extended family still lives there, I visit often. I feel that I must have travel in my blood, having started at such a young age and being a member of a family so passionate about traveling. At four (which hardly counts I know), I went to Belize and Guatemala. Since then, and besides England, I’ve visited Mexico, Germany, France, and Spain, where I spent a month in Madrid at sixteen on my own.
 
By no means a seasoned traveler, Argentina is the next step for me. I could have easily studied in Europe, but it all seems to easy because of my family’s central location. I’m a believer in the philosophy that traveling should be somewhat challenging, and involve constantly putting yourself outside of your “comfort zone.” That being said, my Spanish skills are not the best and my most important goal while abroad is to improve my command of the language. This also factors into my concentration, which I’ve deemed “Creative and Cultural Identity” (working title). Having an artist as a mother and being exposed to art so early on, I am interested in learning how to expand and hone my creative capacities in the areas of Creative Writing and Photography, while also studying various aspects of cultures that interest me through Anthropology, Language and Art History.
 
Writing this post is definitely making me feel more at ease about leaving, and I’m excited for the semester to finally begin. Especially since my plan isn’t just to study abroad in Argentina. I have to get my British citizenship this summer, which requires staying in the UK for six solid weeks. Since I wouldn’t have enough time for a summer internship or job, I decided to travel my entire summer. Once the semester ends in Argentina, I plan to bus the length of Chile, going north into Peru and then into Ecuador, where I can hopefully go to the Galapagos Islands. From there, I plan to spend a week in Miami at a very good friend’s house. Then it’s off to the UK for the rest of the summer, meaning I will fly straight back to New York from London. Only three more days till the adventure begins.

(Image by Emily Tugwell. Taken in The Angeles National Park)