This morning I woke up at 7:30 so I could be sure I would have time to shower and everything else without slowing down my homestay mom. We were supposed to be at the Academic Center by 9:00 and it’s at least a 15 minute walk even if you’re moving pretty quickly. I am so used to adults waking up before me, especially when they go to bed as early as Rosario did last night – around 10. I stayed up until after midnight I think, just getting things organized. Anyway, when I woke up, I thought my cell phone had somehow reverted to EST and I was an hour early. But no. 7:30 is just pretty early for Rosario… and much of the rest of the city. She only woke up and showered maybe a half hour after I finished my own shower.
[Borrowed champú y crema, shampoo and conditioner, from Rosario last night, though we had some trouble with the conditioner part of that equation. The dictionary says “suavizante” or “bálsamo” is the correct term, but Rosario used “crema.”)
Once she was up, Rosario showed me where the electric water heater pitcher was and put out some tea bags and sugar for me. (Last night she had asked me if I took café or té, and I had said té because that somehow seemed more polite at the time than explaining that I was a water person. Also my throat and nose have been all clogged up feeling since the plane ride, and tea sounded wonderful.)
Rosario also told me that her friend María and María’s homestay student, Victoria, would be coming for dinner tonight. She thought it would be nice for me to make friends with someone my own age and then get to know her friends as well. I felt so mothered! This was probably a direct result of my saying I didn’t have friends here, but I kept trying to make it clear last night that everyone seemed very nice, and I knew I would make friends soon.
We left for my 9 o’clock breakfast event a few minutes late. Allowing fifteen minutes isn’t quite enough for that walk unless you’re going to jog some of it. I wasn’t paying much attention on the way to the NYU building. Everything was so pretty, and I wanted to find as many ways as possible to express that to Rosario. (¡Me gusta mucho los jardines en los balcones! Todas las personas los tienen… I really like the gardens on the balconies! Seems like everyone has them…) She smiled.
At the academic center we sat in that big, beautiful room again until everyone arrived and then we marched over to the ICAPA building together. Almost all our classes take place in the Center, but when we all have to gather together in a big group, NYU has the use of a couple floors of ICAPA. (It’s named for a company… I know the last two words are “Personal Aeronáutico” but I don’t remember the rest.) They finally fed us… Churros, churros covered in chocolate, croissant-like pastries that were a little sweeter than normal croissants, delicious flaky dough twisted and formed into a U shape (that was my favorite – it was just a tiny bit sweeter than the sort-of croissants and so flaky and crisp and yummy), toast (without butter - what were they thinking?), and a bunch of juices and teas to choose from.
Then followed the staff and faculty welcome, which was bit drawn out. I don’t really think it’s possible to make those events wholly interesting. If you’re lucky, a few of the speakers are entertaining enough to wake you up from the stupor that the others have put you in. Our dean seems nice. As does everyone else. That’s the most you can really hope to get out of it. The next event was a Buneos Aires 101 presentation in which they managed to touch on but not fully explain a lot of really important things – how to access money through the ATM, how to exchange currency, using the subway (subte), using the buses, calling home, etc. Once we are all thoroughly lost and confused, they fed us again. I had a few more bollos in addition to salad and the main dish, gnocchi.
[Argentina is very Italian. Almost 50% of the last names are Italian, rather than Spanish, in origin.]
After food, there were Spanish placement tests for those who needed them and icebreaker games for those who didn’t. We were broken into two huge groups for the games and somehow our group managed to play all sorts of bizarre ice breakers while the other sat in a giant circle and spent a good chunk of the time on a really epic game of mafia. Jerks.
Finally, once the test takers returned, we divided up into a bunch of buses for a city tour. Our bus’s tour guide was Mónica. Mónica was a very interesting character, a Buenos Aires native in her fifties with sun-toasted skin, lots of makeup on, a big personality, and somewhat of an obsession with New York City, which she had visited only once before for a period of four months or so. From Mónica we learned that…
- Argentina’s name comes from the Latin “argentum,” meaning silver. Spain hoped to find silver here.
- Argentina has 23 provinces in addition to a federal district, la ciudad de Buenos Aires. La ciudad es la capital del país pero no es la capital del la provincia de Buenos Aires. El capital de la provincia es La Plata.
-The country’s two most important holidays are May 25th and July 9th. Buenos Aires was once part of the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata, a Spanish colony which included what we know today as Argentina, Bolivia, Paraguay, and Uruguay. On May 18th, 1810 Buenos Aires residents began the May Revolution. It lasted a week and ended on May 25th when the colony was completely freed from Spanish rule. Spain did try to reclaim its colonies and almost had some success with the help of Peruvian royalists. The Congress of Tucumán was formed on March 24th, 1816 to address the problem of Spain’s persistence. It included 33 delegate deputies, each representing 15,000 inhabitants. Several Argentine provinces and the area that would become modern-day Urugay failed to send delegates, but voting took place anyway, ending on July 9th with an official declaration of independence from Spain.
The bus took us down el 9 de Julio (named for the date of the declaration of independence), the street on which el obelisco sits, to la plaza de mayo (named for the May Revolution).
There is no escape from McDonald's. There is NOWHERE you can go without them.
Then it stopped and Mónica sent us out into the square to take pictures. On the one end sits la Casa Rosada - the pink house (think Whitehouse) - where the president works. (She lives outside the city and is flown in everyday by helicopter.)
Going around the square counterclockwise from la Casa Rosada, there’s the headquarters of the national bank, la Catedral Metropolitana de Buenos Aires - Buenos Aires Metropolitan Cathedral (the main Catholic church in Buenos Aires), and on the edge of the square directly opposite la Casada Rosada, la municipalidad – the current city hall – and el Cabildo, Buenos Aires’s colonial era city council building.
The national bank headquarters.
La Catedral Metroplitana.
City hall. (You can see el catedral on the right.)
Now you can see a bit of el Cabildo to its left.
El Cabildo! Isn't it such a cool structure? (Taken through bus window; please excuse reflection.) :)
I love how even the financial buildings beside el Cabildo and along the left of this photo are completely gorgeous.
El microcentro, the financial district, occupies the remaining side of the plaza, that opposite the cathedral and bank headquarters.
I don't really have any head-on shots of microcentro because I was so distracted by all these signs hanging up by that edge of the plaza. They're placed there by the Asociación Madres de Plaza de Mayo. The Mothers of la Plaza de Mayo are those whose children were abducted by the government during Argentina's military dictatorship from 1976 to 1983. In many cases, their abducted sons and daughters were tortured and killed, but due to the secrecy surrounding the kidnappings, many are still unaccounted for today; they are neither alive nor dead but "disappeared." Although they largely believe that the government today does recognize their loss, they continue to march every Thursday without fail in memory of the Disappeared and in support of other social causes.
Within the square are the May Pyramid, positioned roughly at the center of the plaza, and a monument to General Manuel Belgrano, located directly in front of la Casa Rosada.
The May Pyramid with la Casa Rosada and bit of the national bank headquarters in the background.
The General sits just in front of la Casa Rosada.
A view of the May Pyramid from just next to the General's statue.
Our next stop was San Telmo, the oldest neighborhood of the city and its first industrial area. (I say “stop” but actually we only drove through it. I’m excited to go back and take all the pictures and do all the exploring I couldn’t do today.) In the 17th century it was home to brick kilns, warehouses, and a growing population of dockworkers, brickmakers , and many others involved in the preparation and storage of the Buenos Aires’s main exports – wool, hides, and leather. The area was exceedingly poor throughout the 18th and early 19th centuries, but began a gradual upswing during the 1850s when lighting, gas mains, sewers, running water, and cobblestones were installed, along with the appearance of new clinics and the opening of the city’s primary wholesale market. Many upper middle class and wealthy families moved to San Telmo and built large, beautiful, Spanish colonial style homes, many of which are still there today (along with all those cobblestone streets).
A yellow fever epidemic in 1871 ended San Telmo’s short-lived prosperity. Over 10,000 died and the surviving well-to-do families fled to an area in the city now called Barrio Norte. Some of the properties left behind were torn down to make room for parks in the overly built-up and congested neighborhood, the largest of which, Lezama Park, was designed by a famous French-Argentine urbanist. (I really want to visit it, along with the Argentine National Museum of History, which is quite nearby.)
Most of the remaining big, beautiful homes were converted into tenement housing for the massive wave of European immigrants who arrived in Argentina from 1875 to 1930. Large communities of British, Italian, and Russian Argentines sprang up, and San Telmo became one of the most multicultural barrios of the city. As the immigrants moved up economically, they spread out through the rest of the city, but not before drawing a heavy tango presence to the area and imbibing San Telmo with a somewhat bohemian atmosphere. Local artists were drawn to the neighborhood and helped lead a cultural revival of San Telmo, which, in its encouragement of tango music halls, the opening of the Buenos Aires Museum of Modern Art, and the organization of artisan guilds which arranged and promoted art walks and other events, also led to an economic revival. The area is now the home to primarily middle-class citizens and attracts a ton of tourists due to its 19th century architecture and cobblestone streets.
In Mónica’s words (and you must imagine this spoken in her dramatic, heavily accented voice): “This!” She made a theatric hand motion towards the streets and houses outside the bus. “Is the birthplace of the Argentine people… Argentina is tango. Tango is passion. Passion is love!”
Our next stop (and this time we actually did stop, but it was only for a short time, and my camera ran out of batteries, so I have no pictures for you) was the neighborhood called La Boca – “the mouth” – named for its position on the mouth of the Río Matanza – “slaughter river.” La Boca is a very poor area that attracts a lot of tourists because of its bright, colorful houses and el Caminito, the small pedestrian street at which we stopped and briefly explored. Tango dancers perform on the street, artists have stands of paintings and sculptures, and inside a nearby building there’s a cute café and place that will let you exchange money even without a passport.
[It’s a bit frustrating that in order to exchange American dollars for Argentine pesos you have to have your original passport on you. In most other instances that require ID here, a simple photocopy is sufficient. It’s just stupid to carry your passport around with you, and yet you must if you want to use your U.S. dollars. I don’t really understand why they even need any kind of ID when you exchange money. It’s cash. What does it matter if you are who you say you are? The place in La Boca was kinda shady (they didn’t even want to see the photocopy, and they calculated the exchange rate at 3.85 pesos per dollar rather than the usual 3.9+), but I was so happy to be able to exchange my money that I really didn’t care.]
We sat down in the café for just a little while. The server made a big show of telling the girls I was sitting with and me that we were “beautiful!” (again, picture a dramatic, heavily accented voice, but this time male). The empañadas weren’t vegetarian, so I tried an alfajor because I was seeing them everywhere in the city already. Picture a two soft cookies that aren’t so sweet – sort of shortbread-ish – with a very thick layer of gooey, candy-like dulce de leche between them. It was too sweet for me and I think also not the best representative of alfajores in general.
[It came in sealed plastic and was the same brand I had seen in a bunch of little convenience stops. I’m tempted to refer to it as a Latin American Twinkie, but that really doesn’t seem fair. Nothing’s as sickeningly sweet and bad for you as a Twinkie.]
I didn’t have any bill smaller than a 50-peso note because the woman with whom I had just exchanged money had refused to give me anything smaller.
[Argentina has a couple currency problems. First of all, they have a substantial coin shortage. A few months ago, banks would only give their customers a maximum of 2 or 5 coins at a time. Now the situation is much improved and we can get a whole 7 or, if you’re lucky, 10 coins at once. This wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that the buses, which are usually 1 peso and 20 centados, only accept coins. Also, small bills are difficult. ATMs give you the largest possible bills, usually an overabundance of 50- and 100-peso notes. You can’t use bills this large unless you really trust the place you’re using them because the cashier will take your money, exchange it for a counterfeit version, and inform you that the bill you handed them is counterfeit. Or, they’ll take your money and give you a counterfeit fifty peso note as change. A legitimate place, meanwhile, really doesn’t want to give you their small bills as change because they don’t have enough of them to begin with. There’s a lovely little dance played out whenever you purchase something. The cashier asks you if you have the exact change or states simply that he can’t give you change for a bill so large, and you stare him down until either he breaks and gives you your change or you break, decide he really doesn’t have the change, and cough up a few 2-peso bills or, horror upon horror, some coins. Because there aren’t enough coins or small bills, everyone hoards them, and so there are even fewer small bills and coins. It’s a really productive cycle.]
I was forced to tell my flirt of a waiter that I only had the 50 to pay for my 3 or 4 peso alfajor. He made a pained face, but when I showed him I really didn’t have anything else, he left to look for my change. When he returned, he gave me the change and insisted that he loved me, asking for my name. I think he was cheering himself up with a greater degree of direct wooing.
La Boca is definitely a place to visit only during the day, though. No one except the people who live there hang around after dark. It’s just too poor an area to be safe. In Mónica’s words, “Electricity – not everyone. Water – not everyone. If gas – only for cooking… and not everyone.”
As a side note, the colors for the poorer (but most beloved) soccer team in Buenos Aires, the Boca Juniors, are blue and yellow. This team is the heart and soul of La Boca; its players are all poor or lower middle class Argentines. Many people, especially in La Boca, paint their homes bright yellow or blue or both in support of the team. (We saw so many houses like that! I wish I had had batteries for my camera.)
On our way back toward Recoleta, the barrio in which most of us live, the bus passed through the absolute poorest section of the city, Puerto Viejo, an area along the river in the south of the city. The homes were tiny, just small rectangular rooms, constructed of brick or wood or whatever other building materials were available and then stacked on top of each other unevenly. The roof of the “house” below provided a place for the inhabitants of the one above to set up a clothesline and hang laundry. What surprised me, though, was the neatness of it all. I mean, the people there were obviously struggling, but there was no sense of squalor or dirt. They had built the structures themselves, and though each one was sort of mish-mashed against its neighbors, they looked solid. Stone and brick had been carefully cemented together. The poorest areas of New York City are kind of… dirty; there’s more trash on the streets, the occasional old tire or piece of plywood or other junk, and the homes are dilapidated, poorly cared for. There was no sense of that here.
Mónica once again started rattling off the status of her chosen indicators of living condition. “No electricity. Water – not everyone. No gas.” She explained that this was the place that poor Peruvians, Bolivians, and Paraguayans come when they immigrate to the city. “Look, look at these people,” she said more than once, and we all looked at each other instead. Monica seemed very nice, but she seemed to think that Argentina had a patent on poverty, that no was very poor in the States.
As the bus headed out of Puerto Viejo, we passed under a bridge where a more rickety-looking home was under construction. Three walls, mostly of corrugated siding, had been set up, and a girl was standing near it with two much smaller children. “See, look here.This girl. Fourteen, pregnant twice already. The problem is education,” said Mónica in a dismissive enough tone that we all alternately stared at her or exchanged glances with each other, wondering if she had really just said what we thought she said in such a cavalier way. After a few minutes of silence, we started asking a bunch of questions about education in Argentina. Primary school is 6 years, and secondary school is another 6. Attending school is mandatory, but from what I gathered, that’s not very strictly enforced, and it’s only mandatory until halfway through secondary school, I think. Mónica explained that a lot of students quit school as early as possible so they can go out, get a job, make money, sooner. The cool thing, though, is that there are public (meaning free) night classes available to those who decide to go back to school later on.
More information from Mónica:
- Public education through the undergraduate level is entirely free in Buenos Aires, even for people who aren’t citizens. I should have learned Spanish sooner and applied to one of the universities here! J Private universities cost 1000 pesos a month. Mónica explained that she was lucky enough to have been able to attend a private university, but that it had been as a result of sacrifices made by her family.
- She estimates that roughly 20% of the population is wealthy – “millionaires.” Keep in mind that this is in pesos, though (so more like $250,000-aires), and she may have been exaggerating or misspeaking. 20-25% is very poor, and the rest fall somewhere in the middle.
- Minimum wage is 1000 pesos a month ($250 USD).
- If you’re jobless or making less than 1000 pesos, the government will provide you with up to $600 pesos a month.
Sometime after we left Puerto Viejo, I completely passed out. I think there was way too much sugar in the alfajor I ate in La Boca, and anyone who knows me knows that I don’t do sugar highs – just sugar crashes. I woke up as we neared the main NYU building, the Academic Center. Mónica was giving a speech about how important it was for all of us to put off marrying and having kids for as long as humanly possible. “Date many girls,” she said to the guys. Directed at us, she said, “Date many boys! Don’t get married. Enjoy life!” She was a real card. :) As we got off the bus, she also insisted on giving every single one of us a hug and kiss on the cheek.
Back at the center, a group of us decided to go buy cell phones, beginning what we didn’t yet know would be an epic quest. First we tracked down Citibank where we had been told we could use the ATMs to withdraw from our United States checking accounts. The first ATM I chose was out of money. I tried two others, but for some reason they weren’t reading my card correctly, which kind of worried me. Everyone else was waiting on me, so I just made do with the pesos I had gotten at the exchange in La Boca earlier today. We found Claro (the brand of prepaid service we had chosen mostly for its store’s proximity to the NYU building) pretty easily, but several other groups of NYU students had already beaten us there, and there was a wait. I told Sarah I would be right back. There had been a Staples (yes, they have them here) a block past Citibank, and I really needed that power/plug adapter for my computers if nothing else.
At Staples (“Más simple”), I wandered around lost for a few moments before finally gathering the courage to test my Spanish. “Perdón…” I said. He answered something along the lines of “Sí, ¿qué tal?” – yes, what’s up? “Necesito un adaptador para mi computadora.” He wanted to know what type of computer and led me over to the ones sold there so I could show him. He thought I meant the actual computer power cord. I pulled my netbook’s power cord out of my backpack, which I was wearing on my front,
[Most women in Argentina don’t wear backpacks, but when they do, they most often wear them on their fronts. It feels sort of awkward at first, but it’s a lot easier to get to your camera, your wallet, etc. when you wear it that way and a lot harder for anyone else to get to those things. You never know when you’ll end up in a crowded place where you’ll have to look frantically over your shoulder every few minutes to make sure no one’s actually unzipping or going into the backpack should you keep it on your back.]
and showed him the plug. He understood, wrinkled his face a little, and said, “No.” “¿No?” I repeated stupidly, feeling a bit defeated. Then he started rattling off something in Spanish that I couldn’t follow at all. My face must have shown this because he stopped, and said, “Tranquila” – calm down – “Dos cuadras” – two blocks. He explained very slowly that I needed to walk one block down, to Larea, cross Santa Fé, the street we were on, and walk one more block to a store that would definitely have what I needed. I thanked him and left.
His directions were good, but I almost missed the electronics store/tool shop/everything general store that I needed. You see, it was all those things but still just about the size of my bedroom here. The room customers had to stand in was dramatically smaller, definitely less than my bathroom here. The store was on the corner, and when you stepped into this small bathroom-sized space, there were two walls, one immediately opposite the door and one to the left. The actual outside wall of the building was on your right. In each of the two inner walls was a large, rectangular opening over a counter. The walls around these windows were completely covered in various home improvement or electrical items. Saws, outlets, wires, hammers, glues, lightbulbs. A youngish girl and an older man were working there, one behind each window. You could see that they were surrounded by shelves. Customers asked for something and they dug through boxes or climbed up on ladders in the cramped space to find it. Sometimes they came out around the window and grabbed things off our side of the walls.
There was a short line, meaning that most of the standing space inside was full, so I stood just in the doorway. This was my first lesson regarding the Argentine personal bubble. Two guys came up behind me and talked for a few minutes before addressing me and motioning towards the store, asking me if I was in line. When I just looked sort of confused, they moved forward more, and I stepped into the tiny space in the store. The Argentine personal bubble. It doesn’t exist. I knew something about that before coming here, but I didn’t think it would throw me so much. I don’t really feel as though I need that much of a bubble, but I instinctively find myself edging away from people here. They’re just that close, especially waiting in line. It doesn’t really bother me so much as I am fascinated by my own automatic reactions and just how “off” it feels to me.
When it was my turn, I already had the computer plug out to show her. “Necesito un adaptador.” Most of the items for sale didn’t have any plastic wrapping or packaging on them at all, and my adapter was no exception. She dug around for a while until she pulled out a cardboard box that had a bunch of two pronged adapters in it. I pointed to the type that would work in the outlets at my homestay,
[Argentina also can’t decide which kind of plug it wants to use. Some outlets are just two round holes and others are two little lines, slanted in towards each other (like those in Australia except that the positions of the neutral and live prongs have been reversed to prevent people from being able to use cheaper, Australian imports). At my homestay, we have the slanty lines type.]
and she gave it to me for five pesos. Not a bad deal. :) Then I ran to catch up with everyone I had left at Claro. Most had left but Sarah and Veronica and some others were still there. Claro had run out of their cheaper prepaid phones, which were just $179 – 45 USD.
[The dollar sign ($) is used here to signify pesos just as it used for dollars in the U.S. I’ve been avoiding using it so far in this blog to avoid confusion, but from this point forward assume I’m talking in pesos unless I say otherwise.]
We walked over a few blocks on Santa Fé and found the bigger Claro store, but they were also out, and none of us wanted to spend much more on a phone we’d only be able to use for four months, so we split up and made our way home. This was my first time heading to or from the apartment by myself. I consulted the map once and then put it away. I realized there were a few ways I could go that would be really simple, just two or three turns between the NYU building and home, so I felt pretty good about it. I still managed to walk right past my building, though. Everything is so new to me; I can’t help looking around like a tourist everywhere I go. Anyway, I retreated a block, found my building, and was buzzed in by the doorman.
I had just gone up to the apartment when I realized I still hadn’t bought shampoo or conditioner. I would have to borrow from Rosario again. It was just after 8 and I didn’t want to be late, especially since I knew María and Victoria were coming over. Oh well. Walking in the door, I excitedly held up the adapter and said, “¡Compré un adaptador!” – I bought an adaptor! “¿Para la computadora?” she smiled and asked – For the computer? “Sí, y hablé solamente en español,” I said – Yes, and I spoke only in Spanish. I am so proud of that mini adventure of mine today. :)
Victoria and María arrived and we had a really nice visit. Victoria and I sat in the living room and chatted. She’s here with a program from Virginia Tech and has been in Buenos Aires for over a month now. She’ll finish in November but won’t go home until Christmas time. That month will be spent exploring more of Argentina and South America. I’m jealous. María brought wine, and I was a little taken aback when I was offered some, but I accepted. I keep forgetting I’m allowed to drink here. It was a malbec from Mendoza. It’s the most popular type here, I think. Victoria said it’s one of her favorites and that it’s usually a little less strong than a merlot. And of course, pretty much all wine here is from Mendoza.
Dinner was delicious. There was some sort of meat-filled ravioli for everyone else and an awesome pumpkin-filled type for me. (¡Me gusta zapallo!) The sauce – la salsa :) – was a delicious creamy tomato. Then we had the ice cream form of dulce de leche for dessert. It was sort of a chocolate flavor, unbelievably creamy with itty bitty chocolate chips scattered throughout, and a hint of a flavor that wasn’t quite coffee but reminded me of it. I don’t know what this specific flavor of dulce de leche is called, but it’s really, really good.
Good day. Very good day.
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