Danielle's Argentime: May 2008

Last week I moved from San Telmo (the oldest barrio in the city) to the super-swanktastic Palmermo Soho. (Not to be confused with the equally swankerific Palermo Viejo (Old) and Palermo Hollywood). Despite my minimal feelings of guilt and yuppification living in one of the most upscale parts of town, I am very very happy to be here. My apartment is lovely. My new roommate Laura, her kitten Nina and I have 2 nice bedrooms, a big kitchen and a comfy living space. The living space excites me the most. In Casa Peru I never enjoyed just spending an evening by myself (partly because it was nearly impossible with so many people around) and partly because the wasn’t a space in the house where I enjoyed just hanging out. My room was a bit dark and cold; dare I say dinghy, even. I never wanted to stay in there and read a book. In my new apartment I have an inviting couch and lots of light. I can stay home for an evening without feeling the least bit cooped up. Though the social atmosphere in Casa Peru proved perfect for my first two months here, I no longer feel that it’s necessary. I still see my CP friends, but now I can also get away and have my own space. To top it off, Laura and I have remarkably similar music taste and that which emanates from her ipod speakers always makes me feel right at home. With her as a roommate I feel like my music collection has doubled!

Before I left Casa Peru, Antoniette, Tonio, Guillem and I had a spectacular Noche de Sushi y Bailar. That is to say, we all craved sushi one particular night, but feeling too lazy to go out, we decided to order in. While waiting for our (copious amounts of) food we blared 60s go-go music and danced around Antoniette’s room all night. We sat on the floor and ate our gigantoid pile of sushi and fancy desserts, then danced some more.

Last Sunday, Antoniette and I decided to go to Tigre, a small city about an hour away renowned for its natural beauty. The idea was to rent bikes and ride for the day. When we got there and began asking about bike rental shops we got a bunch of weird looks. Apparently the notably picturesque part of Tigre, a string of islands surrounding the city, can only be reached by boat. We decided to book a day with an excursion company which sold us package including the boat ride and a few hours of bike riding on the islands. As many of you know, I am a bit anal about being on time. Though this may seem contrary to many other parts of my oft space cadet-ish self, it’s true. I hate being late. Antoniette cannot arrive anywhere within 30 minutes of on-time to save her life. It’s become something of a joke between us. So, now, we’re in Tigre. We’ve booked our excursion with the excursions man and he tells us that our boat leaves for the islands at 2. That gives us about 30 minutes to procure and ingest lunch. We sit down at a restaurant, and of course, I am chomping at the bit to leave the entire time. And I must say that Antoniette, for her part, remained reasonably aware of our time crunch, but still the charge of getting us there on-time obviously sat upon my shoulders. In my 2 months here I have not seen a single Argentinian person arrive on-time for anything. I’ve never seen anything start on-time. In Argenspeak, 9 o’clock means somewhere between 9:30 and 10. So on this pleasant afternoon in Tigre I said to myself, “Danielle, don’t be such a worry wart. Just calm down, you’ll make the boat in plenty of time. For once in your Buenos Airean life, don’t show up and wait for 45 minutes, just enjoy your lunch.” And so, Antoniette and I showed up at the dock at precisely 2 pm on the dot (because for me arriving exactly on-time is arriving late). I felt proud for not hurry us along (too much). Ok, in reality I had the entire wait-staff of the restaurant aware of our precarious time situation and I practically yanked Antoniette’s last empanada out of her mouth at 1:50. But still, for me, leaving at 1:50 was a big step. And what do you know… just as we approach the dock at 2 on the nose, our boat pulls away. And as it turned out, that was the last possible boat we could’ve taken for the day. So, alas, we never rode any bikes, and we never even saw the islands of Tigre. BUT the day turned out quite well. We left Tigre and met up with Maria and Augustin at their house. We had all planned to go out to dinner. Just before leaving for the restaurant, Augustin received a call from a friend saying that their pick-up soccer game was short a player, and could he come fill in? So he said, “Ok girls, this is your opportunity to watch some serious Argentine soccer.” We piled in the car and went to a nearby indoor soccer facility. Maria, Antoniette and I comprised the spectator section. The guys were AMAZING! It’s like a different sport here. The speed of the game, the fancy footwork, the ball control, the team work… like nothing I’ve ever seen. We watched the first half of the game, and then Antoniette decided to go in search of another ball so that the three of us (all members of Mediapila) could practice on the field next door. She found a ball, and we had a great time putting ourselves through drills and scoring goals against nobody. When the guys finished, a couple of them came and joined us for some further play. When we finally left the field, sweaty and red-faced, it was almost 12:30. We went to dinner at Maria’s cousin Nacho’s restaurant, and guess what we ate? Nachos! That might not sound so exciting to you Americans who can eat nachos galore anywhere and anytime you want, but I cannot. If you had assumed that because I am in Latin America I must be practically sleeping on a bed of nacho cheese, you would be wrong. There are almost no nachos in Argentina. For as I said before, Argentines possess an ungodly fear of that which contains flavor. So, eating nachos on this particular evening was a treat! The perfect capper to a day that didn’t meet, yet somehow exceeded, my expectations.

One more quick story. The other day I got stuck in an elevator in apartment building of one of my students. It was very funny. I stayed in there between floors for a half hour while the doorman ran around searching for a key to let me out. I could hear him running up and down the stairs and shouting to me intermittently to make sure I was still alive in there. When I was finally freed, I had to climb up to safety because the floor/ceiling was at chest level. My student couldn’t believe that this was my first-ever elevator entrapment. Apparently it is not so uncommon here.

Tonight I went to see a documentary (in Spanish) and I understood some of it! I saw a documentary during my first 2 weeks here and understood nothing, so this marks a calculable improvement!

Mediapila update: We’re in 2^nd place in the league out of 11!!!

The team + Feli
Over here, Maria!
Pies de futbol