9. Great good places

Reading Rosemary Mahoney’s Down the Nile, I compared her to the women of the previous week, both Morris and Davidson. Unlike these two, Mahoney showed a stronger side of women—a more observant, rather than reflective, one. Traveling in Egypt on her own, and then wanting to ride the Nile in a rowboat by herself, Mahoney definitely yearns to experience Egyptian life with respect and pride. However, it seems as though with mixed amounts of political turmoil and terrorist attacks, the new additions of the Egyptian army muddle any form of “freedom” that most travelers hope to experience. It doesn’t help that Mahoney’s a woman—which creates a whole new platform of inherent sexism across the masses.

Unlike any of the other readings, what I find interesting about Mahoney’s piece is that she wants to be left alone. Period. With all the previous anthropological studies of the people of the land and how the writer found relations with the natives and re-interpreted their way of understanding, Mahoney does not care about making contact with the Egyptian people, partially because she knows that their desires obstruct her, for either they try to “protect” or make advances towards her.  Originally coming from America, her rowing experiences in America seem to completely differ in Egypt. Although alone in both, off the coast of Maine or on the Nile, Mahoney exerts more effort to stay hidden in Egypt. She finds it unbearably hard. For a woman in the land, she makes it seem as though a land of both patriarchy and contradictions when she notes, “ . . . having spent a total of three and a half months in Egypt on three separate visits, I could not deny that, although I always wore long trousers and long-sleeved shirts and conducted myself as decorously and seriously and modestly as my reasons for coming here would allow, I had never visited any country in which sex had so often arisen as a topic of conversation” (5). Not feeling disadvantaged by her sex, I think that Mahoney acknowledges her potentially discrimination in Egypt but tries not to speak for “all women discriminated,” but instead, just wants to ride her boat!

I loved when she wrote, “Land was stationary and always belonged to somebody. Water, on the other hand, was free. It moved and shifted and traveled. It was volatile, and when aroused it could be unforgiving . . . And it pleased me to realize that I could sit in a small boat and propel myself across all this hugely moving water with an engine no more powerful than my own two arms (9).” I think that Mahoney, unlike Morris or Davidson, tries to find purpose in a different means. Rather than finding herself or helping others, she wants to live normally—as she would in Maine—and the fluidity of the water establishes an unbounded representation of freedom, free from the control and faulty government of Egypt.

While it's intriguing to me to write about the more tame aspects of Berlin- the beautiful and relaxing Bier Gartens or the parks where children run around on the superbly designed playground structures, there's not much I've experienced more often nor more thoroughly than the clubs in Berlin. Every young person, old electronic fan, or queen with a nightlife seems to have the shared desire to Berlin-two-step until the bright morning at one of the many obscenely fantastic clubs in Kreuzberg. My favorite is Renate, or, translating the whole name, “Salon to the Wild Rebirth.” It feels like it sounds.

The two (sometimes, I hear, three) floor club has the vibe of a burlesque rave for the chill crowd. Good-looking young people with torn t-shirts and combat boots reign on the dance floor, where Djs kick your ass with beats that make you want to utilize the many platforms and poles one can find at this club. Equipped with many bird's-nests, high points with cushions from which to watch and relax with your club-mate vodka drink, and couches, it's easy to meet Germans or other foreigners who, once finding out you are American, are generally surprised you're there in the first place. This is a great good place, one where I see more Germans smiling than usual, and where the disco-balls and portraits on the ceiling make me feel more at home than the stark halls of the dorm or the glaring florescence of the Academic Center.

Once at such a place, you must sweat out your sacrifices to the gods of party, the lords of dance, and at the altars of alcohol and illicit gifts. One often experiences the moment of glory at which you feel baptized in the sweat of your peers, rebirth. After such moments you and the ring of close gatherers step out into the cold air to the outdoor space decorated with travel-reminiscent and birth-oriented objects. A boat hangs from a tree, swinging in air going nowhere, strawberry-colored vaginas are found on some of the trunks, a tire-swing encourages the newborns to play among the changing lights as we smoke our cancerous cigarettes. Berlin shows me, in places like these, and especially in context of the history, that destruction and death and a crucible is what the dark night desires while always ringing true that at sunrise the ultimate goal is reconstruction, birth, and brotherly love. The youth and subculture only crushes it all together in a less orderly way than the typical rationality of German daily life. Renate, and places like it, become the escape and the oasis.

It's too cliché to say Berlin's clubs are the best in the world- how would I know this anyway? I am only a tourist who wastes half her weeks in these atmospheres. I'm making an effort to brave the clinging cold into the daylight life if Berlin where perhaps the less frivolous great good places exist, but I often find myself blindly following the music to the next dark, smokey trance state. Despite the fact that I prefer to not partake in some of the more chemically-driven pieces of this society, I am largely addicted to this scene, and to this, I assure you it is, great goodness.

I am a product of the communal fragmentation as discussed by Oldenburg, and as such I am accustomed to suburban development and the rise of the car. Though there were times as a child of feeling disconnected from the generation that I am supposedly a part of, I feel that there were different ways of dealing with the stress of fragmentation. Most of my community consisted of more friends who were large, integral parts of my life due to the need to put in the effort to see one another instead of a haphazard collection of individuals with whom I had negligible conversations. As much as Europeans mentioned in the excerpt from "The Great Good Place" can mention that they feel ostracized when they are transplanted into America, there is much to be said concerning the means by which one is raised. Of course a European would feel foreign in America due to his very upbringing to navigate his native foundations of a different social structure rooted in urban planning. I find similarly as much estrangement in this new city, with its strange urban social structure, rooted in a sprawling urban planning that I have yet to feel community in. 

Social fragmentation does not end simply because one uses a different mode of transportation aside from the automobile. If it pleases the jury, I would like to cite that public transport in a larger city serves the same purpose of fragmentation as does the automobile. WIth respect to my personal experience with Berlin, the size of the city lends itself to a large lack of community, despite its vast network of alternative transportation. Granted, there are moments within the fabric of the city that allow for community development, such as the flea markets, the large parks, and the art events hosted by the city. But it is nothing like the environment discussed by Oldenburg, whereupon the individual can leave his apartment and find his friend down the block on his way to work. I have yet to see this phenomenon in Berlin, save it be for the singular situation of students living in a dorm style situation in one location and the route to school is the same for everyone. And even this is in many ways aversive to many, as there is an unspoken obligation to speak to the other person, something that is not expected in America since the commute to work and school is usually in solitude. 

As for a great place in Berlin that I frequent along with my fellow students, the flea market is a great place for native Berliners and foreigners alike to convene and discuss the wares being sold. The uniqueness of the products being sold brings many different kinds of people to the market. Along with this, the local Beirgartens are another glorious place to experience community especially on sunnier days. Germans of all ages come to enjoy the sun in a large pavilion like space, flocking to enjoy a fresh half liter of beer and a bratwurst with family and friends, relaxing in the sun. It is not unusual to see people reading, napping, conversing, or simply relaxing sans social interaction. There is no unspoken rule as there is in America that one has to interact with the other person to be polite. It is as if the social interactions have another unspoken rule of productive silence, where one does not need to fill the time with meaningless dialogue and is welcome to relax. It is a gloriously different means of understanding social situations, and one that I feel that is absent from American dialogue. But contrary to Oldenburg's point of view, this different understanding of social interactions does not have to do with how the urban environment is shaped by means of transportation. Relaxation is a concept passed through the generations, and though we as Americans have somehow forgotten how to do so, it is not linked in any way to fragmentation due to the automobile. 

When thinking about Florence, so many great good places come to mind. I can't seem to get enough of La Carraia's creamy delicious various flavors of gelato, even boasting a Nutella yogurt flavor. Nor of Gusta Pizza's plain margherita pizza. You know it's good when you only need a plain pizza. Nor of the Leo and Luca's panino place across the street from my apartment, a shop even smaller than Pommes Frites in New York that makes the freshest panino I have ever tasted. No name on the door, no real menu, no hours posted, they just stay open until they run out of bread. All of these places make my mouth water ("aqualino in bocca," as I have learned in Conversations in Italian), but apart from their deliciousness and the embarrassing frequency with which I visit these places, I don't have much more to say about them. I mean, I probably could, but adjectives will be far overused.
 
Somewhere that I have continuously frequented since my second night in Florence is a library/cafe/bar/live music venue across the Arno called Le Cite. I'm not sure how we discovered to go there on our second night in Florence, but someone suggested it, and we ended up there. Like any place you go to, once the door is opened and you enter, you automatically are flooded with the vibes floating around inside. Le Cite varies drastically each time you go there. That first night, we were the only American students there, it was a weekend night, and all of us were ecstatic to be in Florence and to be in a place that was truly local. Some people were still trying to get work done in the upstairs area with rowdy Italians and Americans alike conversing while downstairs a band was playing music to which people were line dancing. The ambiance is set by rows and rows of bookshelves lining the walls, giving it the right kind of chill vibe when you want it, that you could pick up a book and discover something while splitting a few bottles of wine with some friends.
 
Other nights, you walk in on a weekday, a quiet band is playing, and there is not really anyone there. These nights are still enjoyable if you have a good crowd of friends and a few glasses of very reasonably priced vino della casa. Recently, I saw a few friends of mine perform jazz music at Le Cite, which reinforced the bond between myself and Le Cite, as I proudly danced and bobbed along to the beautiful notes coming out of their instruments.
 
Generally Le Cite is my neighborhood bar (even though it's not exactly in my neighborhood), a place I go for some comforting vibes, friends, wine, and music, and has been a constant for me since I arrived in Florence. It is certainly a breath of fresh air from most of the other bars that tend to play primarily American Top 40 hits! (Oh, Rihanna, how I tire of you...)

(Due to being very, very sick since I came back from India, I am quite behind with posts, but I will be posting up the missing ones in the next 24 hours, as well as trying to catch up with everyone else's blogs.  Sorry for the influx of comments in advance!)

I am, by most people’s definitions, a bit of a loner.  I prefer coffee, alone, to a round of beers at a bar.  I prefer to visit museums in the company of myself, and no one else.  When I do socialize, I prefer parties at home, relaxed and full of conversation, when the beer hits you only when you realize you are all laughing much too hard at the last joke.   I have become accustomed to being someone who does not “go out.”  Certainly not to the club, maybe to the bar.
And yet, and yet.
I have to say, there’s a small bright spot in my heart for Epo’s Spot.  Tucked back behind the busy lane of Oxford Street, garishly lit with red string lights but somehow perpetually dim, it welcomes everyone.  Come evening it’s nearly always bustling, doing a fair trade in beer and popcorn and pizza, accented by one cedi Cokes in glass bottles.  Not more than plastic chairs downstairs, a chaotic mess of  bar, restaurant and flip cup tournament grounds upstairs,  Ghanaians and expats alike come for the ubiquitous pizza and cheap beer towers.  These eighth wonders of the world provide a veritable fountain of beer for 15 cedi, making it the cheapest, most relaxed way to sit back, hang out, and get properly smashed, knowing that there is always a taxi outside waiting for you.  Given the longevity of Accra’s nightlife, even in a place as relaxed as this, you will always turn in before the bar closes down.
Whenever I am pulled out of the house, convinced by my friends we need a Saturday that does not consist of us working sleepily on a bottle of wine, or following a friend to his dj-ing gigs, the night starts or ends at Epo’s.  There we find the uproariously drunk Dutch, extremely forward Ghanaian lesbians, AFS volunteers and university of Ghana students, all lured by the promise of cheap beer, lackadaisical service, and a table that is yours until you abandon it.  It is one of the very few places that NYU recommended to us that we actually go to, and lay claim to as our own. In fact, when a scholars group came to visit NYU Accra, a few were invited, a few turned to many, many turned to a flood, and suddenly the whole place was filled with NYU kids, taking up too much space and talking too loudly.  And those who live here, they moved themselves downstairs and away from the din.  It felt like a violation of something that was not an NYU campus, an intrusion on one of the few slices of real life that study abroad students could participate in without calling attention to themselves.
It was that night that I realized I didn’t need to be pulled out to Epo’s.  I actually really liked its slow paced, relax with your beer atmosphere.  Since that night, with Spring Break and being very, very sick on the other end, I haven’t been back, though my friends have.  I found myself jealous I wasn’t out with them, helping finish the beer tower and passing the time.  It’s been a long time since I was jealous I couldn’t go out to the bar.

(Image is my own)

Every once in a while I get up the courage/strength/non-laziness to go out for a jog.  On these rare days, I have the choice to either run to the Eiffel Tower and back or around the park across the street from my house.  Although running to the Eiffel Tower is one the COOLEST THINGS I HAVE EVER DONE, the park is actually more conducive to jogging. 

Parc du Ranelagh had been fairly empty up until the sun came out about two weeks ago and then suddenly there were gaggles of children running and climbing with their somewhat less-than-attentive caretakers in tow.  It seems that the sun has given everyone in the park a newfound happy energy.  On days like the ones of the past few weeks, I trick myself into jogging in the park amongst the babies.  I go home from school, put my things down in my room, and quickly strap on my running shoes before I can even realize that I am doing it.  I grab my keys and my Ipod and head out the door as my host-mom is wishing me “bonne course” (essentially “have a good run!”).

I see other runners as I enter the park and I often wonder if they are like me in that they are only running today because it is beautiful or if they have made more of a habit out of it.  I always assume that it is a habit but I’m not sure why that is.  Going further into the park, there is a playground with sand and play equipment which is where I see most of the excited children laughing, running and screaming.  (I’ve been almost run over by kids chasing after a stray soccer ball).  There are people walking their dogs, sitting on benches reading or talking with a friend, mothers, fathers and grandparents pushing strollers.  Sometimes I gain little running buddies as I go (dogs off their leashes seem to be very excited to run right next to me).

Apparently it’s not very French to be running for leisure/exercise/whatever but I do see other runners around the same loop of the park where I go.  Sometimes we acknowledge each other, admiring each other’s adorable running outfits (mine is a bright green tee-shirt that says “LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA” and black leggings).  I wonder if these people are American as well or if they have picked up on this American thing.  If we do actually speak it will be to say “bonjour” – it’s easier to assume that the other is French, perhaps we are both mistaken.  In any case, it’s nice to feel somewhat a part of a French community right across the street from my house.  It is certainly a “great, good” place.
 

One of my favorite places in this city is parque de las heras. I guess you can say its because it gave me my first “inside” experience. it was the first place that made me feel like a local. It is right next to my house and one of my first days here I went there to sit with my friend and discovered how beautiful, young, and hip it was. It has a really interesting history as well, as apparently it used to be a jail before they tore down and made into a park. I have yet to take a good picture of it, and when I google imaged it the photos so poorly represented it, until I came across this image that was posted on someone's blog and titled "butterfly in las heras park". The image was the only one I saw that captured the essence of the park... It’s a place that really inspired me for some reason, and I wrote a sort of creative piece about it that I wanted to share...

The park is a shore circled by a restless city. It is one expanse of color in the midst of gray and faded hues. Behind it we can see a fancy dock with its tall, proud, liners hovering in the blue sky. The buildings grow out from the rest of the Recoleta/Palermo architecture below them of which they do not belong, into the horizon. Shiny, brand new, curved like the sails of a boat their blue radiation complements the healthy green of the park. On the weekends rich yellow is added to the scene as umbrellas and sun chairs fill the open spaces untouched by the cool green shade of the trees.

Groups of young people sit on the sloping hill as if gracefully placed there by an artist constructing his composition. I become a figure in the scene as I lie in the deep grass—a sort of Porteño.

The circumference of the park is a barrier between work and leisure, between bustle and relaxation, between smog and air, and between young and aged. People flee to be in the presence of colors that are alive, to deep saturated green vegetation and pure rich blues of the ocean. The colors stream into our bodies through the painted air filling us up with its refreshing qualities.

We become earthy in the park. Some people bring their guitars, a group of acrobats with dreads, artsy tattoos, and ripped shorts are taking turns in the air suspended in a long, lavender cloth, tied to a sturdy branch of a tree. Young people sit together on the slope drinking matte, a breeze dances on by and I can smell a slight sent of marijuana in the air.

The city outside of the park’s borders is hushed, transformed into the water of a vast ocean, and we are sitting on its shore.
 

When someone says café I automatically associate the word with being social definitely as a place to hang out with friends. Florence has definitely confirmed my views on the meaning of this word. The cafes here serve as central meeting points, places to sit with others and hang out. Although Americans and Italians share so many similarities such as hanging out at local restaurants or cafes, it is interesting to see how different we are as well. Italians interact with one another in a completely different way. Rather than meeting up for a half hour to catch each other up on the latest gossip, they lounge around and take their time as they slowly (and I mean really slowly) sip their coffee. The café down the block from my apartment is small, literally half the size of a local Starbucks in New York. Yet this tiny venue manages to fit more people than I can count, especially around lunchtime. It may be common for Italians to congregate in these different cafes, but I have noticed that the Americans (myself included) definitely tend to hang out more at bars and restaurants. Sometimes it feels as if the entire restaurant is filled with only Americans, which allows me to somewhat feel as if I am back in New York. I guess most Italians eat dinner at home, with their families. There is definitely a huge stress put on the importance of family life.  The only time I really see Americans lounging around in a café is on campus. The large room filled with about a dozen tables is always crowded as students grab a bite to eat or simply sit down to catch up with friends. During my first week here I was surprised at how long people seemed to sit around and take their time. I was so used to the fast-paced lifestyle of New York City—sitting down to eat for a half hour was almost unheard of. I guess the laidback Italian lifestyle is starting to rub off on me. When my parents came to visit they were shocked and found it amusing to see me lounge around and really enjoy my food. At home I (embarrassingly) would stuff my face, hoping to get a million more things done that day. Hopefully when I head back to New York, I won’t get kicked out of restaurants for taking too much time to eat. It will definitely be another adjustment!
 

My friends and I learned the hard way that going out is really only done on Friday and Saturday. It’s the second week of classes and we put on our best outfits and apply makeup (which we never do considering how hot it is). We’re ready to go out and dance the night away. We had researched the hottest bar/club in the city and we were prepared to spend the 16 cedi on a drink. Only about 30 minutes later when we’re dropped off in front of a deserted building we realized that this Thursday night might not go as we had planned.

It’s pretty typical in Ghana for websites to go un-updated, foods to not be available when they’re advertised, and drinks to run out. Anything may or may not be available. You just have to go with the flow. After having done the research we thought we were set to go, unfortunately the club was under renovations until the end of January. Might I add that it is now March 26th and Kofi Citizen Entertainment is still closed. Ghanaians also run on their own time.

After the first club was a bust we decided to walk down Oxford Street in Osu. This is easily the most happening place to be in Accra. It’s only about a 5 minute cab ride without traffic (which rarely happens). All the best restaurants, clubs, and shops are along this street. Being the new kids in town my friend and I decided to ask some random people on the street where we should go to hang out and get a drink. In the end we found two great guys that lead up to a local hot spot called Epo’s Spot. They warned us for the future that nobody really goes out Thursday nights and that Kofi Citizen was way overpriced.

Pretty much everyone in the NYU-Accra program has been to Epo’s and it turned out to be a great spot to watch the Africa Cup of Nations soccer games. It’s a cheap and chill environment with a homemade pizza stand right outside. It’s expensive but worth it on those days of indulgence.

We mainly stick to the places we know how to get to. The language barrier with the taxi drivers has put us in many predicaments over the past couple of weeks. Drivers not understanding left from right, saying they know where to go when really they don’t. A whole plethora of problems, that on a good day we just laugh off. Transportation is the only thing hindering us from stepping out and finding more hot spots.   

Picture is of the famous "Beer Tower" at Epo's

In Oldenburg’s The Great Good Place someone says that compared to America, in European cities such as Vienna you are “persuaded to go out often because we are within easy walking distance of two concert halls and the opera, a number of theaters and a variety of restaurants, cafes and shops” (5). This statement is 100% true in Florence, Italy. Despite the inconvenient hours of shops, there is always something to do within walking distance. From cafes for a quick espresso or discoteca at 1 in the morning. I really appreciate this city life because when I lived in my suburbia in California, there was no place to congregate and nothing to do.

When traveling you want to find a place where the locals go. While there are plenty of cafes and lounges around, I found a perfect spot in Florence. I was invited for drinks at Caffe Letterario Le Murate by my Italian friend. I was not sure what I was looking for when I entered an apartment complex court yard. However I was shocked to find a group of diverse people outside sitting and smoking cigarettes. It was about 10 PM and some people were drinking espresso and reading, while others were finishing dinner or drinks. I heard music from the inside and saw a few familiar faces from other bars in Florence. 

I knew that Le Murate is a “great good place” because of the size and amount of people there on a weekday. I noticed that a lot of bars and cafes are empty on weekdays and concerts and events only happen on weekends. However I learned that everyday at Le Murate there is either a concert, dj set, movie screening, book reading or art display. There is a monthly news letter distributed out to their costumers and inform everyone about events that you can be involved with. Another reason Le Murate is frequented by locals is because of the student discount and low-cost menu they offer. They have good food at the breakfast buffet, lunch, aperativo and dinner.

Apertativo is one of my favorite cultural discoveries here abroad. It is what Italians do for fun, instead of an expansive dinner or party. Almost every bar and cafe sets out snack food from 6:30 to 8:30 for any one who buys a drink. This is the Italian version of our “happy hour” however it involves food and at places like Le Murate, it could be a light dinner. Also the time is very convenient because people could be at the cafe for studying or reading, and can take a break when aperativo starts and socialize with friends over a glass of wine. I have found aperativo at Le Murate a great way to practice my Italian, most of the friends I have made there don’t speak english so Italian is the only way to immerse.

Ice cream (helado) in Buenos Aires gets its own category in the food culture of Argentina.  It is an art of a dessert and is insanely popular, with there being an heladería on almost every block (or so it seems).  I’ve been to several different chains and unique shoppes here in the city, and I can honestly say it is the best ice cream in the world.  I can also say that I would consider myself a connoisseur of this sort, coming from America’s Dairyland, the good ole Dairy State of Wisconsin, where our dairy products are supreme and we don’t mess around when it comes to ice cream, cheese, custard and the like.  So I’m almost shocked to say that the delectable ice cream comes from their milk (which tastes totally and completely bizarre to me, almost sour, or curdled, yet it produces great dairy products, so who can complain?) and of course, the help of Italian immigrants and their art of gelato.  Ice cream here in Argentina is not even ice cream, per se, but the perfect blend of how ice cream and gelato are made, for a type of helado unique only to this country; the best helado in the world.
 
And when I say that ice cream culture is a culture, I mean it.  Argentines are serious about getting their fill of ice cream, particularly of the flavor dulce de leche (similar to caramel), another dessert of national pride, pictured above.  Right off the bat of my arrival, my homestay sister recommended an ice cream place that is just at the end of our block (too convenient) that she says is the best in the city.  And I dare say she is definitely right.  Tufic: Espacio de Sabores located in the barrio of Palermo SoHo is an artisan ice cream shoppe with a list of standard flavors always present, but also several daily changes to this list, so there is always something new.  Every time I go I try something different, dazzling me even more than the last.  It is all so thick and creamy, and somehow doesn’t melt in the hot sunshine: the perfect savory summer solution.  Or perhaps the perfect always solution, since it has started to get cooler and Tufic is still constantly packed.
 
Tufic is definitely a neighborhood hangout spot, a prime “great, good place” for anybody, any lover of ice cream.  It is a family spot at all hours of the day, a place for dates, or even a place to meet up and discuss business over a coffee (they also sell a selection of coffees and beautiful pastries).  It’s open until 2 AM, and thus gets packed on the weekends, late at night.  My roommate and I know some of the workers there, one of whom tries his broken English on us, in which we reply and converse in our somewhat broken Spanish.  I chose this spot to write about because it is definitely the place I have frequented the most in all of Buenos Aires, since it is right outside my door.  I have taken friends here, and when my parents came to visit, took them to this spot after dinner.  I like to consider it as ‘my spot’, my “great, good place” to show my friends and family, and of course, to keep coming back to for the awesome staff and the more than awesome ice cream.

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.

Once again, I find it hard to answer the prompt through my experience here in Abu Dhabi.  Of the eight location categories listed above, there is only one, bars, that I’ve gone to here, and even then there is only one bar that I’ve gone to more than once!  My life here is centered very heavily around only a few places: my two internship locations, the dorm (where our dining is as well), the ‘Downtown Campus’ where classes are, and two or three grocery stores.  I guess that I am also pretty familiar with the terminal at the airport as I’ve been in it three out of the past four weekends.  However, this is not to say that I feel trapped or really in a bubble here in Abu Dhabi.  In fact, it all feels just right- I’m nowhere too much, I interact with lots of different people, and I constantly feel motivated and inspired.
 
So thinking of a “great good place” for my life here in Abu Dhabi, two come to mind: my room and the dining hall.  A huge percentage of my social interactions take place in both, and each is a hang-out spot for my friends and me.
 
Because I work everyday until 5 or 6pm, I always have about an hour to chill and decompress in my room before dinner.  I normally go with the same group of people and we sit for a little over an hour talking about our days, some topic or debate that came up, and it is always a good time.  We then usually separate for a few hours to do some work and then slowly convene again in one of three rooms, mine included.  Mine is nice because I have a single made for two- meaning it is large, we aren’t bothering a roommate, and I always keep it very clean and stocked with fruit or candy of some sort.
 
The idea of my own personal space, or that of NYU being my “great good place” in Abu Dhabi only reaffirms my belief that we students are forming a new fifth culture of the city.  There are the Emiratis, the wealthy ex-pats, the migrant workers, tourists, and now us.  Each of the other four groups has their locations, and sometimes I go to them, but I don’t list them as my “great good place” because they don’t feel like ‘mine’ or ‘ours.’  We aren’t really sure where we fit in around here, but we are welcomed nonetheless.
 
This prompt also makes me realize the huge difference between being at NYU-Abu Dhabi for one semester and being here for four years.  For a few months it is nice to have my room as my main hang-out, to always convene in the dining hall, and occasionally escape into other various Abu Dhabi locales, but to do the same thing for too long would be monotonous and tedious.  Many of the students, especially the second years, feel a little cabin fever.  Granted, I already have more internships and get out more than most of them because of those, but still- I can understand why four months is enough for this structure.
 
That said, increasingly everyday I fall in love with Abu Dhabi, and as I graduate in December, I think more and more about the possibility of looking to return here for work.  I guess that then I will venture into the status of “expat” and probably then find a new, more concrete and real “great good place.”

I love brunch. This is among the essential facts about my character and my favorite weekend hobby. When I came to Buenos Aires, I was worried about the brunch situation when I learned that medialunas (smaller, sweeter croissants) or white bread toast and café are typical breakfast fare. Thankfully, with a little research and dedication to the cause, I can defiantly say that Buenos Aires has great brunch if you know where to go.
 
Buenos Aires has a definite trend towards shabby chic cafes. The traditional Argentine cafes have a very austere, classic style so it is easy to spot the hip places. The cafes I like usually are decorated in pastel colors with mismatched chairs and tables. The music playing is usually American indie rock.
 
Egg dishes are integral to the fare of a typical brunch spot. As I’m gluten intolerant and cannot enjoy French toast or pancakes, they are really all that I have to look forward to. Poached eggs are the most difficult type of egg to prepare and if the yolk is hardened, you might as well just not bother. I’ve unfortunately had some over-cooked poached eggs since coming to Buenos Aires, but it’s happened to me in the United States as well. Overall, Buenos Aires does a good job with their brunch and here are my favorite spots:
 
Oui Oui – Right in the heart of Palermo Hollywood, this eclectic café is worth the perpetual wait. Their signature basil lemonade will quench your thirst and their desserts are lovely. If you opt for their mousse amargo (bitter mousse), they bring it out in a giant bowl and ladle an ample serving onto your plate.
 
Malvon- Another shabby cheap spot in the emerging Villa Crespo, this café will serve you enough brunch to keep you full all day. For $80 pesos (about $18 USD), you receive a main dish, side dish, granola parfait, cornbread and lemonade of the day. The sides include gluten free pancakes so they instantly won my heart over, but for those gluten enthusiasts, they also have bagels with all the fixings, including lox (the picture is from a blog's review). 
 
Home Hotel- I found this chic hotel by e-mailing a local food blogger about the best bloody mary spot in town. In addition to a great, spicy drink, Home Hotel boasts thai chicken salads and huevos rancheros alike. Furthermore, the environment is contemporary and chic. I went here on my 21st birthday and it was a great place to celebrate.
 
Perhaps brunch isn’t the most authentically “Argentine” meal, but these “good, great places” keep me sane among the Parillas and empanada takeout cafes.