I totally hemorrhaged again when I got back from my trip with Lynn. It was total culture shock leaving Buenos Aires for the Northwestern Patagonia Countryside and it was worse culture shock coming home for two weeks. Shortly after Lynn arrived we decided that flying to Bariloche (Argentina’s skiing and chocolate capital) instead of taking the 25-hour bus ride. Lynn made a good point that since she was taking her entire vacation allotment for the year, she might as well not spend more than 2 complete days of it on a bus. It only took us a few hours to sweep in through the clouds to this weird no world where there is no dogshit or $10 peso sex acts and where the mountains and crystal clear lakes unfold all around you like some sort of sick heavenly joke. I spent the first 48 hours or so just in complete shock and awe at the idea of staying in a hostel, trying to speak English again, trying to make friends. I realized pretty fast that I had spent the last four months of my life in a full-body cringe, totally wound-up and scared all the time, constantly on edge, constantly exhausted and suspicious, and totally not myself. The idea of a relaxing vacation was just hard to adjust to I suppose.
Lynn and I shared an amazing experience in the short time that we spent in and around Bariloche. It occurred to me that I probably hadn’t spent that much time with Lynn since she began Medical School, or even before. It also became clear how different we have become and how much of her life I have missed. It was nice to get to know my sister again.
As far as where we were, there are no words. We teamed up with 2 other Americans for the Siete Lagos or Seven Lakes Route so that we could afford to rent a car and do the trip in a couple over a couple of days instead of the panicked 3 hour bus tour the brochures offer. After a few short hours in the car Sean, one of the other Americans, suggested that we were all experiencing serious “adjective deficiency” because after a while of your jaw dropping, gasped breathes, screaming wow, cooing, commenting on how, beautiful, charming, lovely, gorgeous, breathtaking, wonderful, magnificent, spectacular, incredible everything is, you just sort of run out of things to say. Combine that with the fact that at every bend in the road, things just get better, and you realize quickly that you might as well just keep your mouth shut and enjoy it.
It felt good to be out in the country, to have offensive smelling clothes. It felt good to hike for hours and be on a real bike. After the initial shock to the system, it did feel nice to meet people and speak in English and, for the first time in my life, be the better half of a barely-Spanish-speaking duo.
When I returned to the city I really had a hard time readjusting. Once again I was back in this world of honking horns and “kill or be killed” pedestrian walkways, of guys testing out their English on you by asking “Would you show me your pussy?” and just feeling really sorry for myself. Every time I want to throw up my hands and say that I hate it here I try to bite my tongue and remind myself that it is me and not this place. But it is hard.
I am about to finish my Spanish class at UBA – my test is next week, and still I often feel my Spanish is no better than the day I arrived. I have a hard time understanding the accent people and (naturally and understandably) people speak very quickly and impatiently. The other day I was in a giant, expensive, and touristy store buying something. The store clerk rang up my items then said something that I didn’t understand. I asked as politely as possible if she could repeat what she said more slowly. She rolled her eyes and told me, “No importa,” with a giant sigh. But it does matter to me. I wanted to cuss her out and run out of the store screaming that I would never shop in that shithole of a place anyway but I couldn’t think how to say that in Spanish. Naturally, I meekly bought my overpriced things and limped out into the street like a wounded puppy. I curse myself for not having thicker skin. Maybe on some level I am tougher than when I got here and when I return to Santa Barbara I will realize that I am practically a New Yorker by comparison. For now, the porteños continue to be able to crush me like a bug every day.
The winter is very erratic. For a while life in the city was extremely cold and I was wearing all my clothes at once and still coming home cold. The only way the Argentines survived the worst of the weather was the world cup fever that felt like an inferno striking a polar ice cap. It’s been 15 years since I lived in a country where the world cup mattered. And while it mattered in Scotland, it was mostly because everyone in Scotland was glued to their televisions to root against the English because the Scottish side never qualified for the cup. El Mundial, as it is called here, is inexplicable. There are televisions everywhere. There are televisions in kioskos and newsstands. Cafés and restaurants are standing room only. You can’t pass a conversation without someone talking about football or the Brazilians being putos. Children and grandparents are decked out in team colors. Oh, and the entire country is drunk.
After one of Argentina’s wins we walked to El Obelisco which is a few short blocks from our house and one of Buenos Aires’ most recognizable landmarks. It was reported the next day that hundreds of thousands of people were there. People were climbing on top of garbage trucks and thousands of cars honked their horns. Fireworks exploded all around and people drummed and danced and chanted cheers for the home team. It felt like being in the eye of a hurricane. While your own world is relatively calm, life explodes all around you.
Argentina is a crazy and lonely place. Anyone who wants to get a great sense of it should invest in Pico Iyer’s Falling Off the Map, which is a serious of essays on “Lonely Places”. He really gets to the heart of this strange place.
Paul headed up north yesterday. He will spend the next month stomping across the Northwest border towns that cuddle the Bolivian border. News from him will follow. Time permitting I will go and meet him in a couple of weeks before Mary and Roger descend into Argentina.
I can’t wait to see the folks. They could not be coming at a better time. Since leaving town I have missed 2 funerals, just found out I am missing a wedding, and no less than 3 nervous breakdowns. At these times I feel homesick. And I miss my friends. I do, however, know that what I am doing here is important; that I won’t see how much I have changed until I go home. I won’t see how much stronger and smarter I am until I confront my past life - which I'm sure will be unrecognizable. I can't imagine what I ever did with a Venti Latte from Starbucks anymore. This is something I have to remind myself of every day when I feel weak.
I am attaching a photo of Paul and I… in the eye of the Mundial hurricane.
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