Monday, June 22, 2009

The hot sauce at dinner on Thursday was foreshadowing. Brazilian food is bomb, and sometimes when you order things because they have a mysterious name, they turn out to be the screwdriver you were hoping for. Friday never happened. Saturday found Alex and I early on a ferry to Uruguay. This shall be continued on account of a sad tum.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

I failed to mention Filomena came into my Spanish class this morning and gave me and another belated birthday girl yellow candles and a song and me 22 pulls on the ear while her 20. I hope the yellow candle doesn't melt in my suitcase, but, if so, I will have to find a plastic ear to melt it into for imprint's sake.
Powerpoints with audio applause at the end generate genuine applause, too.
Pickled soup is probably something of the future of Lithuania, am I right?
I have been rewriting my notebook all afternoon, and I can't wait to gorge infinitely. Also to dye all of my whites pink.
I'm swimming in a weird pickle soup drinking orange juice to save someone's life. This has nothing to do with finishing a biography on Timothy Leary the day I quarantined myself in the apartment in an effort to save my digestion system and sanity. I like cozy days learning a lot and thinking about analogies to amoebas and youth, also turning car keys and identity, but I will spare you for getting further into abstraction.
Class is coming to a close, and I'm feeling particularly ambitious with a side of exhaustion. I am thinking about the shiny coated black kitten I want to steal, and the fleas I keep spotting from Poncho. I am doing extra wall push-ups because machismo makes me hate most of the men I see. Yesterday a drunk man on the subte made me want to become violent when he was deliberately rubbing his foot on my leg, and today I feel especially hostile in my plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to different lengths and hot black pants and untied boots. I also hate the police officers and hate itself but more so what drives me to frustration and the fact that despite generations of the sentiment unacceptable actions that lead to the frustration and hostility still exist. This is not the ideal environment. Moments such as these make me want to leave, but it's the experience of the frustration is important to a point.
When I feel especially tough in my outfit, I find it refreshing to smile at the older people (but not all of them) and the kids (but not all of them). Always at the shiny coated kitten.
I went to UBA last night with Sam only to discover they cancelled classes because the neighborhood had no water. We went to a bookstore, and I added to the collection. I can't wait to buy a ton from that collection and hand them out to cutie friends.
My mama is coming in one week, and I can't wait! Finals is next week, and I'm rewriting all of my notes in new notebooks for pre-phase 3 of Buenos Aires, finals week prior to post-class. I can't wait to get out of pickled soup phase either to drink orange juice for pleasure instead of for vitamin c.

Monday, June 15, 2009

i should have mentioned the villa which surprised me in many, lucky ways. villa 31 is a sizeable villa (aka slums) located between an industrial area alongside the part, gracing the giant retiro station, and edging along one of the wealthiest streets in the city (hidden by a wall, of course). the government tried to eradicate the villa by putting up a ramp to the highway directly over some of the homes, but they refuse action erring on the side of progress. sam and i got a bit sidetracked and found a gracious lady who insisted we turn around and use the road on the highway to get to the bridge we were seeking rather than cut across the tiny road ahead of us. that was likely in our best interest. we found the church where my professor was waiting for us. the church was the first built in any of the villas by a very ambitious man and priest. he did a ton of social work in the area and prophetically stated "sueno que muero con ustedes" (aka, I dream of dying with you all). one year prior to the takeover of the military dictatorship of 1976, a paramilitary group known as el triple a assassinated him. a lovely old woman and a bolivian woman told me of a dinner that took place just before his death. it was held at an enormous table alongside many people that included french journalists. she kept saying that the food was so spicy! and even though the food was so spicy, he ate it all up! everyone else ate it all up too! i was charmed. in argentina, if there is the slicest hint of spice, it is so spicy! it is hard to find spicy foods here.
we were escorted by my professor and a man who lives in the villa all along, and, obviously, what ran through my head though most were the images of living there. of course they are quite poor comparitively, but it had a similar feeling to what an average town in the north or in bolivia or elsewhere would create. the biggest problem in the villas are young kids on drugs and theft among outsiders. of course, these things often accompany arms, but violence isn't as great a problem there.
i watched a very intense soccer match taking place there that sunday, and it was all very traquil. i have never seen serious soccer playing up close, and it unlocked something there, in that place.
ages and ages have passed, and i am still here (but the clock is ticking). actually, leaving doesn't make sense, and nothing really makes sense. it is another national holiday. there are enough national holidays to name every m&m in 1 classically sized bag after.
this weekend has seen me more mornings and less late evenings bar birthday evening and that, i see, as progress. actually, winter is a bummer, but the city is still aglow and air's still just fresh.
my birthday attracted many goers signaling success, and the food i have still tasted in my brain's mouth signaling "good job chef" and yearning sorts of thoughts. the peruvian restaurant's basement turned into something other than a basement, and octopus cooked in lime and lemon juice could never be anything but delicious. art gallery friend came with friends post-kung fu which means second meetings lead to third and such always. second meetings despite good intentions are rare, for me, here. heavy metal bar realized chance hells angels encounters. who knew argentina had a charter? it also realized unlockable stares from unshakeable man, and i escaped to the sound of guns'n'roses on the loud speakers. puerta roja brought incredible pool manevours, chance encounter with couple previously seen making out at the heavy metal bar, and another escape into the night saturated with giant land before time leaves.
my endoscopy showed no ulcers and led me to the surgical ward due to ambigious directions and some false hopes as to immediate answers. so the procedure lingers on. i am five books richer and furthermore flooded by endless options. in conclusion, 6 months abroad is not enough. my time is marked.