Argentina means so much to me for so many different reasons. On my last night in Argentina, I still can't believe the time has come to say goodbye. It's been nearly six months since I arrived, but somehow that doesn't seem like long enough. Of course there are aspects that I am more than happy to say ciao to such as dog poop on the sidewalks, the endless corruption and UCA. But the good far outweights the bad, and is what will stay with me long after the other memories fade. Argentina has helped me grow, forced me to step out of my comfort zone, learn and explore, meet interesting people and to have the most wonderful experiences of my life. Each day is not only a new day, but a good day too. Because as Carmelo says "La vida es linda...y mas en Argentina."
I have to end this post now because I'm writing this with tears in my eyes. Te amo, Argentina. Goodbye.
Besitos,
B
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Afternoon Tea
The Alvear Palace was constructed in 1932 during Argentina's golden age and is the embodiment of the country's European infatuation. Located in the prestigious Recoleta barrio, the Alvear lies on a tree lined avenue and claims Hermes, Louis Vuitton and Giorgio Armani as its closest neighbors. The architecture is classic French, with doors opening into a mixture of elegance, opulence and grandeour. Entricately tiled floors, towering corinthian columns and lavish Victorian furniture are the perfect compliment to Argentina's high society. And with rooms starting at $800 USD per night, you can be sure that this palace truly is fit for a king.
Inside Alvear Palace
Today Avril, Julia and I went to Alvear Palace for one of my favorite traditions: afternoon tea. It was held in the Jardin d´Hiver, which is a beautiful indoor garden. The service was wonderful and the afternoon tea was lovely. We elected the champagne tea, which consisted of many of the usuals: tea, scones, a variety of finger sandwiches and pasteries; in addition to decadent desserts, champagne and truffles. After a relaxing few hours, we admired the hotel a bit more before leaving the palace and stepping back into Buenos Aires.
The Jardin d'Hiver
Inside Alvear Palace
Today Avril, Julia and I went to Alvear Palace for one of my favorite traditions: afternoon tea. It was held in the Jardin d´Hiver, which is a beautiful indoor garden. The service was wonderful and the afternoon tea was lovely. We elected the champagne tea, which consisted of many of the usuals: tea, scones, a variety of finger sandwiches and pasteries; in addition to decadent desserts, champagne and truffles. After a relaxing few hours, we admired the hotel a bit more before leaving the palace and stepping back into Buenos Aires.
The Jardin d'Hiver
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Springtime in Buenos Aires
Springtime in Buenos Aires is one of a kind. The city transforms from classic in gray to a beautiful urban metropolis, framed by lush trees and lavendar flowers.
After months of the sun setting even before I left class and pushing through biting weather, the longer and warmer days have brought a new list of activities. Mid-mornings are spent reading over espresso and pasteries at an outdoor cafe in Belgrano R. Lazy days are spent in the various parks and plazas around the city, such as my personal favorites San Martin and Jardin Botanico. A free afternoon may mean visiting an interesting museum, such as Museo Evita, which delves into the woman behind the icon. And nights spent searching for the perfect drink in Palermo to cool the day's heat.
Whatever is on the day's itinerary is made sweeter, if not by the delicious ice cream, then by the thought that its springtime in BsAs.
Jardin Botanico
After months of the sun setting even before I left class and pushing through biting weather, the longer and warmer days have brought a new list of activities. Mid-mornings are spent reading over espresso and pasteries at an outdoor cafe in Belgrano R. Lazy days are spent in the various parks and plazas around the city, such as my personal favorites San Martin and Jardin Botanico. A free afternoon may mean visiting an interesting museum, such as Museo Evita, which delves into the woman behind the icon. And nights spent searching for the perfect drink in Palermo to cool the day's heat.
Whatever is on the day's itinerary is made sweeter, if not by the delicious ice cream, then by the thought that its springtime in BsAs.
Jardin Botanico
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Bajo Flores
Buenos Aires is a city that allows many of its inhabitants to lead a rather fabulous life, should they have the means for it. Whether its bar hopping in trendy Palmero SoHo or dining in the exclusive restaraunts in river side Puerto Madero, the city seems to offer an infinite number of options that suite my tastes just fine. With a hint of European class and a dash of latin passion, I never cease to find a good time, with a more than humble price tag.
But after living here for five months, I was more than acutely aware that the Buenos Aires I know and love, doesn't always translate. My daily reality couldn't be further from the truth for a sizeable segment of the population. I've written before about the extreme poverty that lies in South America (see Peru post). And today, I stepped into what I'd only seen from a distance - the other side of Buenos Aires.
My roommate Julia is working here on an internship to help teach the children who live in the villas (shanty towns). Each week she and her co-workers search for educational toys and snacks for the kids and then make the hour and a half trek to visit and teach them. Finally, with the semester having just ended, I was able to tag along and help out.
The long bus ride provided the beginning of my internal dialogue of observations. The further we rode away from our upper-middle class barrio, the change in the passengers' demographic became obvious. We boarded the bus, surrounded by the descendents of European immigrants. As we drove further, they got off one by one, and were replaced with indigenous immigrants from Peru, Bolivia and Northern Argentina. The bus stopped outside of a villa, which looked like a scene out of Ciudad de Dios (City of God, a movie about life in the villas of Rio de Jainero). We entered Bajo Flores, and were hit with a mixture of heat, dust and the scent of erroding sewer systems.
The houses in the villas are constructed by their residents out of brick, cement and any scraps found lying in the trash. Most roofs are a single sheet of metal, held up by thin wooden sticks. Each house had several common characteristics: a hole in the wall will serve as the family's window; a floor without a roof or wall becomes the house's balcony; and clothing lines filled with tattered garments blew in the breeze. I guess what surprised me most, is that each villa is literally its own barrio. The unpaved streets were lined with fruit stands, auto shops, faulty sewer systems, grocery stores and every other business imaginable. These villas function as their own towns, a world apart from Buenos Aires.
We walked into one of the red brick buildings which served as an educational center to expand upon what the children learned in school. Once a month, a meeting is held for the parents about how they can aid in their children's education, while the kids are given educational games to play. The parents, or rather the mothers, sat in a circle in the main room, which is lit by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. Several electric wires are exposed around the room, and the dismal light shines on the dirt floor. There was no door and graffiti tainted one wall.
Out the back door and across the courtyard lies the building where the children play and learn. We sat with them and drew pictures throughout the meeting. The focus of this project was to learn colors. So each time a child picked up a new crayon we would ask them the name of the color and to explain what they were drawing. It broke my heart to hear kindergarten aged children misprnounce the color names, fail to identify the primary colors or fail to speak at all, because silence was the only language they could speak.
I sat with them, gave them cookies and drew with them, stopping only too often to teach them how to pronounce "rojo" or "rosa," syllable by syllable in their own native language. While half of them colored pictures of ninos, casitas and familias the others played in the courtyard, which was a dusty square shadded by a tree and filled with garbage. The kids ran around playing with trash, broken wires and empty bottles.
After the meeting was over, we cleaned up as a man walked in. He wanted to find out when the next meeting was so he could attend and bring his kids. The volunteers, all women, were estatic that a man wanted to come to a meeting. This reality of the absence of men and broken families struck a chord and reminded me of a similar problem in our own bad neighborhoods. It always seems to be the women who are the cornerstone of the family.
Walking through the dirt and trash ridden streets to find the bus stop, my mind reeled with thoughts of what I'd seen. Words cannot accurately describe the despair or the level of poverty I saw today. So I will skip trying to strike an emotional chord and just leave you with my observations, which hopefully paint a picture louder than words.
But after living here for five months, I was more than acutely aware that the Buenos Aires I know and love, doesn't always translate. My daily reality couldn't be further from the truth for a sizeable segment of the population. I've written before about the extreme poverty that lies in South America (see Peru post). And today, I stepped into what I'd only seen from a distance - the other side of Buenos Aires.
My roommate Julia is working here on an internship to help teach the children who live in the villas (shanty towns). Each week she and her co-workers search for educational toys and snacks for the kids and then make the hour and a half trek to visit and teach them. Finally, with the semester having just ended, I was able to tag along and help out.
The long bus ride provided the beginning of my internal dialogue of observations. The further we rode away from our upper-middle class barrio, the change in the passengers' demographic became obvious. We boarded the bus, surrounded by the descendents of European immigrants. As we drove further, they got off one by one, and were replaced with indigenous immigrants from Peru, Bolivia and Northern Argentina. The bus stopped outside of a villa, which looked like a scene out of Ciudad de Dios (City of God, a movie about life in the villas of Rio de Jainero). We entered Bajo Flores, and were hit with a mixture of heat, dust and the scent of erroding sewer systems.
The houses in the villas are constructed by their residents out of brick, cement and any scraps found lying in the trash. Most roofs are a single sheet of metal, held up by thin wooden sticks. Each house had several common characteristics: a hole in the wall will serve as the family's window; a floor without a roof or wall becomes the house's balcony; and clothing lines filled with tattered garments blew in the breeze. I guess what surprised me most, is that each villa is literally its own barrio. The unpaved streets were lined with fruit stands, auto shops, faulty sewer systems, grocery stores and every other business imaginable. These villas function as their own towns, a world apart from Buenos Aires.
We walked into one of the red brick buildings which served as an educational center to expand upon what the children learned in school. Once a month, a meeting is held for the parents about how they can aid in their children's education, while the kids are given educational games to play. The parents, or rather the mothers, sat in a circle in the main room, which is lit by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. Several electric wires are exposed around the room, and the dismal light shines on the dirt floor. There was no door and graffiti tainted one wall.
Out the back door and across the courtyard lies the building where the children play and learn. We sat with them and drew pictures throughout the meeting. The focus of this project was to learn colors. So each time a child picked up a new crayon we would ask them the name of the color and to explain what they were drawing. It broke my heart to hear kindergarten aged children misprnounce the color names, fail to identify the primary colors or fail to speak at all, because silence was the only language they could speak.
I sat with them, gave them cookies and drew with them, stopping only too often to teach them how to pronounce "rojo" or "rosa," syllable by syllable in their own native language. While half of them colored pictures of ninos, casitas and familias the others played in the courtyard, which was a dusty square shadded by a tree and filled with garbage. The kids ran around playing with trash, broken wires and empty bottles.
After the meeting was over, we cleaned up as a man walked in. He wanted to find out when the next meeting was so he could attend and bring his kids. The volunteers, all women, were estatic that a man wanted to come to a meeting. This reality of the absence of men and broken families struck a chord and reminded me of a similar problem in our own bad neighborhoods. It always seems to be the women who are the cornerstone of the family.
Walking through the dirt and trash ridden streets to find the bus stop, my mind reeled with thoughts of what I'd seen. Words cannot accurately describe the despair or the level of poverty I saw today. So I will skip trying to strike an emotional chord and just leave you with my observations, which hopefully paint a picture louder than words.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Dance like this...
Maybe I should be more embarassed than I am to admit that "Dirty Dancing Havana Nights" is one of my favorite movies. As the title hints, this movie is the latin version of the original. It takes place on the sandy beaches of a 1950's Cuba, and is filled with passion, music and of course, dancing. Whenever I watch this movie, I always think to myself longingly, I wish I could dance like this...
Recently I had the perfect opportunity to reinact my favorite guilty pleasure. A friend and I went to a concert featuring a Cuban salsa band that is known for being one of the best in the world. By the time we arrived, the band was already warming up, as were the other attendees: women twirling and moving seductively, while men took the lead but made no hesitation to shake their hips as well.
Seeing as we were the only attendees who didn't learn to salsa before we could walk, we opted to hit the bar first for some liquid courage. After a few drinks, we could no longer resist the lure of the dance floor. So fueled by a mojito haze, we decided to at least pretend we knew how to salsa. Inspired by the tropical beats and latin rhythms, we ended up putting on a good show, if I do say so myself.
Once the last song played and the haze wore off, I felt a little wistful. But at least I'd been able to step into a scene from Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, if only for one night.
Recently I had the perfect opportunity to reinact my favorite guilty pleasure. A friend and I went to a concert featuring a Cuban salsa band that is known for being one of the best in the world. By the time we arrived, the band was already warming up, as were the other attendees: women twirling and moving seductively, while men took the lead but made no hesitation to shake their hips as well.
Seeing as we were the only attendees who didn't learn to salsa before we could walk, we opted to hit the bar first for some liquid courage. After a few drinks, we could no longer resist the lure of the dance floor. So fueled by a mojito haze, we decided to at least pretend we knew how to salsa. Inspired by the tropical beats and latin rhythms, we ended up putting on a good show, if I do say so myself.
Once the last song played and the haze wore off, I felt a little wistful. But at least I'd been able to step into a scene from Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, if only for one night.
I'm still here
Hola a todas! I know, I've been a very bad blogger lately. But in my defense, as it turns out you actually have to STUDY abroad. I know, what a concept. The semester is coming to an end, and I've had to focus my attention elsewhere. But now, I'm back! And with some fun updates too :)
Besitos,
B
Besitos,
B
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Argentina es así
Oh Argentina, como te amo...BUT we've got to work on a little thing called corruption...
Today, like all Thursdays, waking up early to go to my internship was painful. I went through my normal routine without thinking, and left to catch the train. Walking and nodding to the beat of my ipod, I reached the train station and dug in my bag to find my...nothing. Seeing as my big vintage tote is filled with my life and all its necesities, I figured I'd just have to dig around and search a little deeper. When I came up empty handed again, I was pissed at myself for leaving my wallet in my room, because retrieving it would surely make me late. But after tearing through my messy room, I came to the realization I had fought so hard to deny: my wallet was stollen!
After retracing my steps from the day before it only made sense. The last time I saw my wallet was when I pulled it out on the colectivo (bus) to pay for my ticket home yesterday evening. I stuck my wallet back into my bag, closed it and held it tight to my side. It was rush hour as usual in Buenos Aires, which meant that becoming very friendly with your neighbor was all but unavoidable and the idea of personal space was almost laughable. So the many times someone bumped into me, touched me or assumed a rather compromising position, I thought nothing of it. However, one of those touches was when my wallet was stollen.
After cancelling all my cards and ordering new ones, its unfortunate that there is nothing else I can do. Call the police? They won't care - too busy being corrupt. Call the colectivo company to see if perhaps it was turned in - they won't really care either. What it comes down to is this: as much as I love Argentina, there are certain things that are undeniable. It is a corrupt country. Every day things go missing and bad things happen, but the majority are pardoned and never given a second thought. Accused of something you actually did? Don't worry, it probably won't interest the police, unless there's the chance they can receive a bribe. Where's the government in this mess of corruption? Well, let's just say the police had to have learned it somewhere.
I guess, at the end of the day, its best to just refrain from counting your losses, say "ciao!" to the matieral things and think...Argentina es así (that's Argentina).
Besitos, B.
Today, like all Thursdays, waking up early to go to my internship was painful. I went through my normal routine without thinking, and left to catch the train. Walking and nodding to the beat of my ipod, I reached the train station and dug in my bag to find my...nothing. Seeing as my big vintage tote is filled with my life and all its necesities, I figured I'd just have to dig around and search a little deeper. When I came up empty handed again, I was pissed at myself for leaving my wallet in my room, because retrieving it would surely make me late. But after tearing through my messy room, I came to the realization I had fought so hard to deny: my wallet was stollen!
After retracing my steps from the day before it only made sense. The last time I saw my wallet was when I pulled it out on the colectivo (bus) to pay for my ticket home yesterday evening. I stuck my wallet back into my bag, closed it and held it tight to my side. It was rush hour as usual in Buenos Aires, which meant that becoming very friendly with your neighbor was all but unavoidable and the idea of personal space was almost laughable. So the many times someone bumped into me, touched me or assumed a rather compromising position, I thought nothing of it. However, one of those touches was when my wallet was stollen.
After cancelling all my cards and ordering new ones, its unfortunate that there is nothing else I can do. Call the police? They won't care - too busy being corrupt. Call the colectivo company to see if perhaps it was turned in - they won't really care either. What it comes down to is this: as much as I love Argentina, there are certain things that are undeniable. It is a corrupt country. Every day things go missing and bad things happen, but the majority are pardoned and never given a second thought. Accused of something you actually did? Don't worry, it probably won't interest the police, unless there's the chance they can receive a bribe. Where's the government in this mess of corruption? Well, let's just say the police had to have learned it somewhere.
I guess, at the end of the day, its best to just refrain from counting your losses, say "ciao!" to the matieral things and think...Argentina es así (that's Argentina).
Besitos, B.
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