13/01/2011
Upon awaking from my customary late afternoon nap today, I was greeted by a clear, rich voice singing "My Way." My curious ears led my feet to my parent's bedroom, where I found Mama, Papa, and Rocio all seated around the computer monitor watching a recital by the remarkable Barbra Streisand. Now five months into my cultural exchange, the sporadic reminders of my mother country (such as this one) continue to mentally disorient me. It is similar to the sensation that one might feel upon discovering the maple syrup in the refridgerator. As we all well know, syrup needn't be refridgerated, so the only logical location for Aunt Jemima is in the pantry, next to her friends Captain Crunch and the Quaker. Storing the syrup in the fridge is not bothersome nor harmful, simply out of place. These uncomfortably familiar reminders of my past life belong "there" and "then," not "here" and "now." Though, not to be mistaken, I quite enjoyed the hour and a half that I shared with Barbra this afternoon.
Later in the evening, Ayrton, Rocio, and I went to the ritzy, private neighborhood situated on the golf course to spend time with our visiting Italian relatives. El Golf is like the Argentine Agrestic--obscenely large houses, perfectly maintained, green lawns, asfault streets. I even saw a woman walking her dog on a leash--something that I had not witnessed since leaving the States! The whole scene sent shivers up my spine, as I know that in just six months, I will return to exactly that lifestyle and it will once again become my version of normality. I will sincerely miss the modest, cement homes, the dirt roads, and the roaming street dogs when I reunite with the cold suburbanization of Clarendon Hills.
Speaking of returning home, three AFS students will board the bus this Sunday to do just that. Tonight, we gathered in Gisela's (president of AFS Rio Cuarto) house to wish Matteo (Italy), Helen (Germany), and Pete (Thailand) a safe trip back to their home countries. The interesting part of the going away party, however, was not the party itself, but rather the arduous journey getting there. Ayrton, Rocio, and I left our Italian relatives' house to meet up with Matteo, who lives with a host family in El Golf. A storm was fast approaching and we were walking at an ungodly pace in order to catch the bus. Within minutes, it was pouring rain and lightning illuminated every inch of the sky. Our already hasty pace increased accordingly. Then, the bus drove right past us! We began to sprint in order to catch it, hollering and flailing for nearly four blocks in the hope of getting the bus driver's attention. I, per usual, chose weather inappropriate shoes--my black sandals have absolutely no traction, so I was running about a block behind everyone else, hoping to not end up in the ER in a Humpty Dumpty-like state . Our desperate efforts were fruitless, and the bus continued without stopping for us. We arrived at a nearby gas station, completely drenched, where we caught a taxi. The taxi driver (who I would come to know as Lorenzo), a vertically-challenged, middle-aged man with an impressive beer belly, was quite the character. As soon as we entered the car, he told us that he had been drinking wine all afternoon long. I frown upon drunk driving in general, but particularly in adverse conditions! Luckily, we arrived safely at Gisela's house. Before exiting the cab, Lorenzo gave us a stack of pamphlets promoting his rentable, blow-up castle business, perfect for birthday parties and special events. I kept the flyer, just in case he does business internationally and I ever need an inflateable palace.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Feliz Cumpleanos, Rio Cuarto!
11/11/2010
Between all of my Argentine grandmothers, grandfathers, parents, cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters, there are approximately 365 birthdays to remember. (Luckily, birthdays in Argentina are always accompanied by cake, Fernet, and kareoke). As if my calendar weren't already cramped enough, Rio Cuarto also celebrated it's 224th birthday this year.
Being the devoted Rio Cuartense that I am, I decided to join the festivities and congratulate my new city for having more years under it's belt than Nancy Reagan---a true accomplishment. My cousin, Trini, and I went to La Rotonda San Martin to watch the parade, which consisted mainly of folklore dancing and fireworks. After the parade, we went to a nearby ice cream shop, where Aryton met up with us. I discovered that a task as seemingly simple as ordering ice cream is challenging in a foreign country. There were about 50 different options on the menu and the only one that looked even remotely familiar was "chocolate." This did not help the matter in the least bit, seeing as the one flavor that I did not want was chocolate. After having blindly selected my three flavors (butchering the pronunciation and pointing stupidly at the menu), the nice lady wearing the blue hat asked me the order in which I would like my scoops. Oh, how my mind instantly jumped to the various units in math class dealing with permutations and combinations!
"Como vengan...," I responded.
Why must we further complicate the situation with trivial questions like this, Blue-Hat-Woman? My refined pallete will be equally as satisfied tasting flavor B first as it would be tasting flavor A or flavor C first. ABC, CBA, BCA, CAB, ACB, BAC....This is ice cream, not a ten course meal with Elizabeth Taylor! Then Blue-Hat-Woman had the nerve to ask me which syrup I would like on top. I should have said, "Cherry, but only on the middle scoop, please." Sticky floors make me unusually sassy, I think.
Full of foreign flavors (though I am still uncertain of which ones), we proceded to the concert along with the majority of the population of Rio Cuarto. Ever felt like a crayon in one of those obnoxiously excessive 64-pack Crayola boxes? I can now say that, yes, I sympathize with those poor, inanimate, multi-colored cylinders of wax. Strangers' everythings were plastered against every part of my everythings. Despite the claustrophobic and chaotic atmosphere, it was an enjoyable experience, and we even managed to find a milimeter (note my subtile use of the metric system here) of space to move our fingers in an attempt to dance.
Feliz cumpleanos, Rio Cuarto!
Between all of my Argentine grandmothers, grandfathers, parents, cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters, there are approximately 365 birthdays to remember. (Luckily, birthdays in Argentina are always accompanied by cake, Fernet, and kareoke). As if my calendar weren't already cramped enough, Rio Cuarto also celebrated it's 224th birthday this year.
Being the devoted Rio Cuartense that I am, I decided to join the festivities and congratulate my new city for having more years under it's belt than Nancy Reagan---a true accomplishment. My cousin, Trini, and I went to La Rotonda San Martin to watch the parade, which consisted mainly of folklore dancing and fireworks. After the parade, we went to a nearby ice cream shop, where Aryton met up with us. I discovered that a task as seemingly simple as ordering ice cream is challenging in a foreign country. There were about 50 different options on the menu and the only one that looked even remotely familiar was "chocolate." This did not help the matter in the least bit, seeing as the one flavor that I did not want was chocolate. After having blindly selected my three flavors (butchering the pronunciation and pointing stupidly at the menu), the nice lady wearing the blue hat asked me the order in which I would like my scoops. Oh, how my mind instantly jumped to the various units in math class dealing with permutations and combinations!
"Como vengan...," I responded.
Why must we further complicate the situation with trivial questions like this, Blue-Hat-Woman? My refined pallete will be equally as satisfied tasting flavor B first as it would be tasting flavor A or flavor C first. ABC, CBA, BCA, CAB, ACB, BAC....This is ice cream, not a ten course meal with Elizabeth Taylor! Then Blue-Hat-Woman had the nerve to ask me which syrup I would like on top. I should have said, "Cherry, but only on the middle scoop, please." Sticky floors make me unusually sassy, I think.
Full of foreign flavors (though I am still uncertain of which ones), we proceded to the concert along with the majority of the population of Rio Cuarto. Ever felt like a crayon in one of those obnoxiously excessive 64-pack Crayola boxes? I can now say that, yes, I sympathize with those poor, inanimate, multi-colored cylinders of wax. Strangers' everythings were plastered against every part of my everythings. Despite the claustrophobic and chaotic atmosphere, it was an enjoyable experience, and we even managed to find a milimeter (note my subtile use of the metric system here) of space to move our fingers in an attempt to dance.
Feliz cumpleanos, Rio Cuarto!
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