Fireflies

Either I am totally losing my mind, or there was a firefly in my bedroom last night. I woke up to a particularly loud crash of thunder, to see a tiny and very brightly illuminated something perched on the chandelier in my bedroom. After several minutes of sleep-infused confusion, I realized it had to be a lightning bug. We don't have fireflies in California, so it took a minute to figure it out. The last time I saw lightning bugs I was 8 years old, on the East Coast, in the backyard of my best friend's uncle's house, catching the fireflies in pickle jars, giving them names and detailed family histories.
Well. If fireflies don't exist in Buenos Aires, please don't tell me, because it means I'm much crazier than I realize.
And speaking of madness, Buenos Aires seems to be a more chaotic mess than usual with the paro del campo going on. No meat, chicken, or milk can get through to the capital. At least I'm learning a lot of new Spanish vocab and don't have to plan lessons this week, because every one of my students is content to give me a lesson on Argentine politics and what is going on right now and their opinion on the farmers, the strike, Cristina, and how she needs to cool it with the botox. And I am of course more than happy to listen, I have a pretty complete idea of what's going on now, much more than I could have just from reading the newspapers.
What I really wanted to post was this story, a well-known Buddhist story as retold by fantastic Bay Area writer Annie Lamott. I try to keep it in mind, especially with all the little things in my life that I'm worried about, like what the hell I'm doing with my life and the fact that I'm about to be living in a refrigerator box on Calle Florida because starting May 1st I will be homeless.
So here's the story:

An aging farmer in China one morning discovers that wild horses have crashed through the fences that surround his farm. "Oh, this is terrible," say the neighbors, looking at the wreckage. The farmer shrugs. "Good news? Bad news? Who knows?" Then the farmer's son is able to catch a few of the horses. "This is fantastic!" say the neighbors, watching the great horses in the corral. The farmer shrugs: "Good news? Bad news? Who knows." While trying to tame the last of the wild horses, the farmer's son is thrown, and breaks his leg. "Oh, this is awful," say the neighbors, knowing how greatly the aging farmer relies on his son. "Good news? Bad news? Who knows," says the farmer. And then, while the son is convalescing in bed with his badly broken leg, the Chinese army comes through the countryside, conscripting all the local able-bodied men for the war raging in the South...

¡Felices pascuas, chiquis!

*bunny photo from cuteoverload

Love, hate, & tango

Last night I went to a lovely party thrown by a friend who is a tango dancer. The party was mostly women, a handful of men, and several Siamese cats. Since about half the people there were tango dancers (sadly, not including me) we got to watch dance after dance of beautiful tango right there in the living room. It was much nicer than seeing it at a tango show or in the street in San Telmo - this was the real thing, people who closed their eyes when they danced, who danced with the same lust and sadness in their movements whether their partner was young, old, beautiful, someone they just met or had known forever. Tango is an amazing dance - beautiful and sexy and tragic. The man leads and provides the foundation of the dance and the woman adds drama with her little kicks and turns. At times, she leans into him on the tips of her toes as if she will fall if he does not catch her.
Tango was not always a well-respected dance. One of my students, who is 17, said his mother told him that her mother, his grandmother, made it well-known that if any of her daughters knew how to dance tango she would kick them out of the house. There is a myth, I don't know if it's true, that tango was created in the brothels of Buenos Aires.
Besides beautiful tango, I saw something else very Argentine last night - fighting and jealousy between women. One was a potential love interest of my friend, who had recently told me she was playing games with him, playing very cold - he was amused by it. The other was a beautiful tango dancer who may or may not be interested in my friend, or she may just hate the mala onda created by woman #1. Either way, they were really doing everything possible to make each other jealous and bringing new meaning to the expression "if looks could kill." It was very overt and created an almost palpable tension between the two women.
Here I'm obligated to say that competition between women exists in all parts of the world, and that there are, of course, exceptions in Argentina. But there is something here that I really haven't found in other places I've been, an essential sentiment of hostility, competition and jealousy between women. Usually I'm exempt, being a foreigner, but sometimes I do become aware of it and it has a real viciousness that I haven't felt at home. Of course there are so many Argentine women are not like that, who are laid back and strike up conversations in the bathrooms of clubs and laugh at the chamuyero Argentine men.
Anyway, last night left me thinking about it. The vast majority of my students are women here and they are almost all very bright, engaging, kind, ambitious, eloquent people. But is that because we met in a classroom and not at a bar? Really, what is with the interactions between women in this country? I feel like it has something to do with the status of feminism here, that there never really was a women's movement à la Women's Lib in the 1970's USA, and gender roles are still very strictly defined. Could be something with economic dependence too. I think it's complicated, and really, ¿qué sé yo?

Chicken noodle soup

I need some. I have the stomach flu, on St. Patrick's Day. Where is my luck of the Irish?? Or 1/8 Irish to be exact. It's hard not to whine when I should be out on Reconquista (BA's St. Patty's street party), not cooped up inside my apartment trying to decide if my stomach can handle plain white rice. I'm missing out on tacky green clothing, face paint shamrocks, green Guinness and lime jello shots... Woe is me. My only comfort is that I was actually here on St. Patrick's day last year, so I have already experienced the Reconquista/Kilkenny madness firsthand.
But it still sucks bigtime, and I feel horrible, and have to deal with rescheduling all my classes which is a nightmare given the 3 national holidays in the next week...
And I'm done. Sorry about the complaining. It's easy to be an optimistic independent expat most of the time, and then you have the stomach flu and are suddenly about 5 years old and really want to not have to deal with things in a foreign language and just to lie in bed and have your mom bring you flat ginger ale and gatorade and homemade chicken noodle soup. Because honestly, chicken noodle soup isn't really the same if you make it for yourself.

Hot tranny mess

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen recently. Or ever. It's SNL's parody of Project Runway winner Christian Siriano. Who we looove. You might not fully understand the awesomeness if you don't watch Project Runway, but then, if you don't watch Project Runway you may want to reconsider your priorities in life. Runway is pretty much one of the greatest contributions to pop culture since Full House. So go on, tranny ferocia, watch it.

The good, the bad, & the cheto cheto cheto

Cheto means "snobby" in Argie slang. Which brings me to restaurant review number one. (The Buenos Diaries is moonlighting as a food blog for this post.) Anyway, on Saturday I was feeling a little homesick and went in search of cafe comfort food. I had heard a lot about Mark's Deli in Palermo - like that there were real sandwiches, even brownies and lemonade! I was sold. Well... it was... okay. I actually feel uncomfortable even writing that but I don't want to criticize Mark's too harshly. Bottom line - the food may pass for upscale and interesting in Buenos Aires but it was pretty much just your basic "trendy cafe" fare - sandwiches on olive bread with smoked salmon or goat cheese or roasted red peppers, etc. The coffee was very good, and the pastries looked good. But it was simply not buena onda. I should know by now what I'm getting myself into when I go into that part of Palermo, but as I was sitting in Mark's I couldn't help thinking two things. First, if I wanted to live in Brentwood, I wouldn't have left LA. And two, am I on the set of The L-Word? Basically, it was just ridiculously trendy and not in an effortless way, either. The customers all rocked the same deliberate bedhead and this month's issue of Vogue makeup (bright lips, bare eyes) and variations on the same outfit. It was very see and be seen. I guess I still haven't learned that what is casual comfort food at home is sometimes sold as very hip and modern here. And the waiters were pretty but rude. I actually had quite a nice time at Mark's, but mainly because Jamie & I were able to make fun of the cheto-ness and focus on planning our next great adventures (to Colombia and Israel. Possibly living on the beach in Costa Rica.)
When dinnertime rolled around I was very ready for some down and dirty street food. Actually, I literally googled "dirty street parrilla buenos aires" and it came up with La rosalía, the one in Palermo, not San Telmo. First things first, go there. Just go. You will not regret it. It was awesome for several reasons. The grill faces the street (always a good sign), it was packed with locals, the waitress was exceptionally friendly, and it was very no-frills. Restaurants are always better when the focus is on the food, no? We tried to order a few things before coming up with something on the menu that was actually available. It was morcilla sandwiches (slathered with chimichurri) and mollejas. And they were AMAZING. All in all, with a bottle of wine thrown in, the bill came to 30 pesos (for 2 people.) Not bad.

Get Lost

No, not Lost the tv show that everyone in Argentina is hopelessly addicted to (though a distant second to the obsession inspired by Los Simpson.) But the club Lost, otherwise known as Club Araoz, which on Thursdays becomes the only big club in BA to play real hip hop. Towards the end of the night it becomes somewhat watered-down and by 5 am is almost completely reggaeton, but by then you've gotten in a few solid hours of shaking your booty to some good old-fashioned USA hip hop. There's also a sort of pickup breakdancing show around 1 am. Anyway, it's cool, highly recommended, for those of us who don't love or are burnt out on dancing to electronica and cumbia. The sketchy guy ratio at Lost is very high, and the dancing is real down & dirty (think of Middle School dances) but there was muy buena onda and we were so, so happy to finally get down, and recognize every song that was played. For me, Lost is like the comfort food of BA clubs because it's so much like being at home. If you ever wanna pretend you're in East Oakland instead of BA, or if you miss sagged jeans, do-rags, bling, and gang signs, hit up Lost.
Downside: I washed my hair twice today and it still smells like cigarettes.

An Open Letter to the Language Institutes of Buenos Aires

Dear Language Institutes of Buenos Aires & the fine personnel you employ,

I have some minor grievances. Surely we can talk in a mutually respectful, civilized way. Oh but wait, we can't, because you are all SKANKY, LYING BITCHES.

Okay, sorry, I got ahead of myself. Let's break this down. I have a few suggestions (outlined below.)

1) Try not to act like a bunch of crazy ho bags. You know, whenever possible.
Like when I go to drop my timesheet off and you totally yell at me for taking on classes and then abruptly abandoning them. And then I tell you that I never did that and you giggle and say, "Oops! Now that I think of it, you're right. I was thinking of someone else."

2) Don't lie ALL THE TIME. Especially when I can prove that you are lying.
So, the internet, it's pretty cool. You can actually tell when someone has emailed you, and check to see what the email was about. Definitively. For any period of time after the email was sent. So don't tell me you emailed me when you actually didn't and then claim to have "lost the email."

3) Pay us more.
You get 40 pesos an hour for our time; we get 20 pesos (or less.) I know you provide a lot of valuable support, but - Oh wait, you don't provide any support at all. Not even free photocopies. I may not be the world's best English teacher but I'm reasonably sure that I do more than 50% of the work when I teach a class.

4) Don't write emails when you're drunk.
Like the email my roommate got last night asking if she wanted to switch her class on Mondays and Thursdays to Mondays and Thursdays.

5) Don't punish me for other people's mistakes.
I know, English teachers in foreign countries have a reputation for being, oh, slightly flakey at times. I'm sure it happens, and I understand you like to be cautious. But enough is enough. I've never missed a class, not returned a phonecall, or left on a one-way flight back to North America without telling you. Yell at me if I screw up, but not before.

I'd like to point out at this time that there are some good institutes out there. Well, one that I know of. Where it's small, friendly, organized, professional, and sometimes there's ice cream from Freddo. The pay is the same, but it's a lovely place to work, and they actually line up classes so I don't spend 3+ hours a day on colectivos and the subte.

See? It's not actually required that you make our lives difficult.

I'm not asking to be your best friend, Language Institutes of BA, I'd just like a certain minimum standard of organization and professionalism.

Until that happens, thanks for all the amusing stories and anecdotes to share over a drink with other English teachers.

Yours faithfully,
Sarah

P.S. If any aspiring English teachers stumble upon this and want to know what institutes they should avoid like the plague, feel free to get in touch.

Heavens to Betsy!

Oh my goodness, boys and girls, it's finally happened. After nearly 5 months in Buenos Aires, I've reached that illusive and yet not-quite-desirable landmark in the life of someone living in a foreign country: when you begin to accidentally run into people you don't want to see. Last night it was appropriately nicknamed Bad Hookup Guy, at an undisclosed location in Palermo Hollywood. His friend was cute, but as la otra Sarah pointed out, he is still Bad Hookup Friend. Anyway, he was nice, I was nice, it was fine. Let it be said that he is actually quite a nice, easy-going guy, and not the "call you 18 times in one half hour" variety of porteño, either. (Oh, you say that doesn't really happen, but believe me, it does.)
Does this mean I'm putting down raíces and becoming a real resident of the city (despite my official visa category being "transitory/temporary")? Or could it be a sign that it's time for me to pack my bags and go?