Part 3 Uruguay: Loving it French Style

“Each friend represents a new world to us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” --Anais Nin, French writer

For our orientation week here in Montevideo, we are lodged in a lovely hotel right on Las Ramblas, basically on the beaches of Rio de La Plata. As we trickle in from our separate flights, we slowly get to know the other American teachers as they arrive. The first ones we meet are our roommates.

And I have the most delightful roommate of all. At least the best smelling one. She comes sailing in on a sea of Lancome perfume, the stuff we can’t even buy in the US yet, and introduces herself in the most charming French accented English I have ever heard in my life. Matilda twinkles. She sparkles. She is ageless, timeless. Showing no trace of jetlag after a brutal flight from the US, she shrugs off the fatigue with a joie de vivre that would rival most twenty-somethings I know.

She just finished a beach vacation at her family’s summer cabana in the south of Spain. Matilda teaches elementary school in Virginia but grew up in France and Spain. She is at the bare minimum, trilingual. I think she speaks a few more languages I don’t know about. She pulls out a full size bottle of good red French wine and proposes a toast. We have a corkscrew? Where did that come from? Matilda is magic.

Our room has been transformed into a perfumerie. Scented candles perch in the bathroom. Full size shampoo and body wash with exotic French labels fill every space in the shower. How does all this stuff fit into a suitcase?

We toast to Uruguay, to each other, to the Fulbright program and to just about everything else we can possibly think of until way too soon, it is time to go downstairs and meet all the others.

I struggle to put on my sensible walking shoes. Matilda effortlessly tosses a scarf over her sweater. Tres Chic. She finishes the ensemble with a pair of knee high leather boots with heels. Where do all these clothes come from? I look like schlumpadinka. She casually runs a comb through her perfect blonde hair. Not one out of place. A spritz of Lancome, and, voila, we are out the door.

Part 3: Blowing into Montevideo

"Checking for Understanding: determination of whether students have "got it" before proceeding".-Madeline Hunter

I want to like Uruguay.
Honest.
I really do. After all, half of my time in South America is going to be spent here.

But the wind.
It never quits blowing.
It starts the moment the airplane door is flung open as we land in Montevideo. We blast across the tarmac to the terminal like thistledown sails in a typhoon.

The gale follows us to the hotel, as we disembark from the van facing the Rio de la Plata, which looks more like Lake Superior on a bad day. I swear I see the Edmund Fitzgerald out the window. Nobody believes me. Whitecaps threaten anyone who dares to set sail on the menacing water. Of course, no one is out there. No one is walking the beach. Too windy. Too cold. Gordon Lightfoot won’t get out of my head.

The wind here is a temperamental, hormonal living entity: one moment tender and soothing, the next frigid and violent. But always cold, cold, cold. It slashes straight through us just like the abandoned farmhouses back home in FoldintheMap.

It is is our constant companion. Even when inside, it threatens. It rattles at the single pane windows like a dog seeking shelter during a thunderstorm. It whistles down the hallways of the hotel and distracts all but the most dedicated of us during our briefings. Even at its softest, it wails like La Llorona at night while we are trying to get to sleep. We are told the wind is a part of life here.

It bays from 22 miles away on the other side of the river in Argentina and picks up screaming speed and force across the icy whitecapped Rio de La Plata. It ruffles the tips of the beach grass like a mother stroking her child’s hair. I wonder aloud if they know about wind chill factors here like back home in FoldintheMap. No one says anything.

The locals stay indoors, in Montevideo’s shopping malls and movie theatres. The lines for the cinema stretch halfway down the mall. The only people here that are outdoors for any length of time are the gringo tourists and those that have to be. We have the sidewalks to ourselves. I’m hoping the rest of our week here will be calmer.
Or indoors.

Part 2: What I came for

 

 

 

 

 

 

School has quickly come to an end and it’s now time to try a little exploring,--although easier said than done--as most of us foreigners have discovered--Buenos Aires is at best, difficult to navigate, and at worst, an incomprehensible tangle of complicated, convoluted streets that run on the diagonal, or inexplicably change names from block to block. Street signs, when present, are small and never in a consistent place. City maps are either outdated or miniscule. Many of the city’s attractions are not served by either the Subte (Subway) or the Colectivos (Buses), so one must factor in the price of a taxi into the price of a ticket—if lucky enough to be able to flag one down.
Faced with these challenges, one quickly learns to rely on landmarks to get anywhere: for example, from my temporary home to get to the Subte, cross the street at the pizza place, walk five blocks and descend the stairs just past the third magazine kiosk, ride the Subte for four stops, (there’s no maps) turn left at the shrine to the Virgin Mary, ascend the stairs, walk seven blocks until the Burger King, and turn left at the white wooden pillars.
All this while dodging uneven and or missing sidewalk tiles, dog poo, homeless people, beggars, pickpockets and little old ladies with canes. And that’s just on the sidewalk. Crossing the broad boulevards of Buenos Aires one learns to attach to a group of locals and offer up a prayer to the patron saint of Safety in Numbers.
Still I must confess a bit of reluctant respect for the place. Born from nitty-gritty beginnings, Buenos Aires has become one of the most important cities in South America; its Italian heritage is still evident in its cuisine, its neighborhoods and its people. Spanish has a musical lilt here I’ve never heard anywhere else--like tango, it dances over the rubbish and rubble and alights upon the ears ever so gently-- like a lover’s kiss. And that’s what I came for.

Part 2: The End of the Rainbow

 

 

 

When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to sing me a song that always used to make her cry. Not knowing how to react to her tears, I would cry too. Even now, whenever I hear the song, it strikes a sentimental chord deep within me that oftentimes racks me with deep sobbing tears.

And I never understood why.
Until today.

The song laments the singer’s inability to travel to a delightful faraway land known only in stories—a land that no one can ever visit. It is the beautiful distant land of the future—a wonderful place that exists only in one’s imagination.
Born before the automobile ever reached FoldintheMap, my grandmother never could have imagined the places her only grandchild would go. But her vivid imagination and her continuous encouragement, even now, decades after her death, serve as the wind beneath my wings.

I have found the end of the rainbow.

And today not only have I discovered this beautiful land, but I have discovered she has been here with me all the time.

Part 2: Niagra on Viagra

 

 

 

 

Iguazu Falls is one of the biggest and most powerful waterfalls i/n the world. A furious avalanche of water, mist and spray, it is easily seen from over 30,000 feet in the air.
Rightfully designated as a world heritage site, it is located at the confluence of Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil. Fourteen miles of raging, roaring water plunges 20 stories into a giant gorge in a tropical jungle. If water could flow over the top of the Grand Canyon, it still wouldn’t equal Iguazu.
After the winter cold of Buenos Aires, this past weekend in Puerto Iguazu has been a welcome and wonderful respite. Funny how one has to travel north here to get warm.
The power of the water is breathtaking. One comes face to face with raging torrents of angry water, with sprays so intense it’s as if geysers are erupting from underneath the surface. This fascinating jungle home of giant butterflies, comical monkeys and begging coatis is an ecotourist’s paradise. One cannot help but come away from here feeling awed.
Miles and miles of hiking trails cross straight over the water and many times right to the precipice above; one can traverse both above and below all fourteen miles of falls—the entire park is so enormous it cannot be seen in a single day.
One of the most fun things I found to do in Iguazu was to hire a whitewater motorboat that will take a passenger almost directly under the cascading, plummeting water—guaranteeing money back if everyone does not become thoroughly soaked. It is the best way to see the world landmark up close and personal!

Part 2: Making lemonade

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade”--Unknown

I had made plans to reward myself after my first week of school in the city with a weekend excursion to Iguazu Falls in the northern part of Argentina, The falls are about 900 miles (or 24 hours by bus) away, so I decided to fly there to take advantage of the time.
Unfortunately, the winds shifted--carrying the ash from the volcanic eruption in Chile that was originally heading Australia’s way to now heading Argentina’s way. It completely closed both airports in Buenos Aires the day I was to leave (The acidic nature of ash can potentially clog an airplane engine).
So, forced to make lemonade from the lemons I was given, and once regrouped at my temporary home in Buenos Aires, I set forth on a mission to explore the city. The mission: to find Harley-Davidson Buenos Aires. After a brief research session online, fortified with plenty of helpful advice from my host Mom, I set out to find a Radio Taxi that would take me there. Armed with the directions from the Internet, I could not fail!
Fortified with my newfangled city bravado, I confidently flagged down a Radio Taxi and gave him the address I had copied from the Internet website. Off we charged into the Buenos Aires winter sunshine, bravely exploring a part of the city neither of us had seen before. All the bravado came to a screeching halt once we both realized the address I had written was not anywhere near where we needed to be. After numerous fruitless transmissions to the head office of the taxi company, my taxista, Alejandro, called a friend on his cell who directed us to the exact place we needed to be.
What was supposed to be a 15 minute trip ended up taking over three hours and costing me almost 200 pesos—but in the process, I made a friend and saw a part of Buenos Aires that most turistas rarely see. It was a good day all around.

 

 

Part 2: La Boca

The area of Buenos Aires called La Boca used to be a portside immigrant (meaning Italian) slum. Locals would beg sailors for leftover marine paint to cover their shanties; hence, the buildings of la Boca are a riot of color and one of the most picturesque places anywhere.

Part 2: Loving the Melody

San Telmo is one of the oldest and best preserved Italian neighborhoods in Buenos Aires. Filled with outdoor cafes, antique shops, artisan booths and dance clubs, it feels like an ongoing state fair. Musicians, actors and tango dancers entertain crowds on the cobblestone street for pennies. San Telmo is where Argentina’s artists live, create and work.

Italians started coming here at the end of the 18th century and have never stopped. A visit to San Telmo is like stepping back into old Italy. The Spanish spoken here in Buenos Aires carries a beautiful harmonious Italian lilt..speakers hang onto syllables like a drowning man hangs on to a lifesaver. Spanish is literally almost sung here, and I’m loving the melody.

Part 2: Everything Familiar and Friendly

 

“Travel is accelerated learning.”
--Rick Steves

The Argentine educational day, like most systems worldwide, begins at the civilized hour of 9AM, and ends at the even more civilized hour of 1PM, allowing both student and teacher plenty of time to aprovechar el dia, or take advantage of the rest of the day. It is customary after school to enjoy almuerzo, lunch, the biggest meal of the day, and then do lo que sea, whatever, in the afternoon. (Siestas are not common here in the city.) We have a break or recreo midway through at 11AM for coffee and medialunas, croissants.

The school is designed for adults who want to learn Spanish, and most of the students are in their 20’s. Classes start anew every Monday, (with the exception of the beginners), so after taking a placement test, a person can simply jump right in to whatever level is most appropriate. Classes are purposely small, so everyone gets lots of chances to practice and very few to slack off. For example, this week my class has five students—two from Italy, one from Brazil and one other Americana, from Arizona, here on a photography internship. Next week the dynamic will change as the Italians are leaving and our Brasiliena goes home for a week of holiday.

One of the most fascinating aspects of this school is that most people are here for much, much longer than I; in fact my six weeks on the continent is a short stay compared to what most others are doing-most are here for six months or longer.

The reason for learning Spanish is as varied as the person learning it; My Arizona classmate Wren is here on a photography internship; she bought a one-way ticket to Argentina. Another, Todd, just in from Hong Kong, works for the security division of Wal-Mart; after his six weeks here, he’ll be moving with his family to work in Costa Rica for two years and then on to Indonesia. Chloe, from Greece, just came from six months of English study in Australia and is here to learn Spanish for the same amount of time simply because she loves learning languages; she’s thinking of moving on to Italy to pick up Italian next; David, the engineering student from Hamburg, Germany, is giving up his three month summer break from his University (and his girlfriend) beacuse it will help him land a better job. Unbelievably, there’s even another person here from the other side of FoldintheMap—each and every one of them giving up everything and everyone that is familiar and friendly for their own reasons to pursue study of the language.

Part 2: Kiss and Telo

Today in Buenos Aires I saw a car driving around pulling a trailer with a big sign advertising something called a Telo. Only $40 pesos for 2 hours of fun! (less than $12 US) Curious, I asked my Brazilian friends from school what it was and, howling, they offered to take me there!

One of the racier and more unusual discoveries here in Buenos Aires is the Telo. From “Albergue Transitorio”, or “temporary lodging”, a Telo is a 'pay by the hour' hotel.

Before coming here, I'd only seen places like these on really bad late night TV movies which looked pretty gross and were associated with prostitution. But here, in a place where 'kids' often live at home until they're married or living with their partners, the idea of a Telo is widely accepted. This can mean a 30+ year old 'kid' living with the parents and dating a possible Mr./Mrs. “Right” might need a bit of privacy. So they go to the Telo (love hotel) for an amorous encounter!

Even the most basic rooms have mirrored ceilings, and huuuge beds that resemble adult trampolines..A packet of condoms, bearing the Telo’s logo and extolling the virtues of safe sex, lies next to the bed, which is covered with a fuzzy pink throw that matches the cotton candy pink upholstery on the two chairs and the shag carpet. I’m starting to feel like I’ve been transported to Marsha Brady’s bedroom in the 1970’s. But Marsha Marsha Marsha never set foot in one of these. At least not on the Brady Bunch.

My Brazilian friends start jumping on the bed; for five pesos it vibrates. “You HAF to see DIS!” they cackle, switching on the TV remote. Porn. Every channel. Porn and more porn. A regular porn fest. Except, incomprehensibly, for one channel devoted entirely to professional soccer.

Room service is delivered by a two-door dumbwaiter so guests never have to disturbed by the intrusion of the help. Part of the appeal, I’m told, is the rabid guarding of one’s privacy. I’m guessing the desk clerks are used to seeing everything here. They didn’t even blink when five of us (four women one man) walked in together--they just gave us the largest room in the place and a packet of towels.

If it all sounds a litle seedy, it is, but that’s all part of the fun. Telos are to Argentina what the back seat of cars are to North Americans-except cleaner.

So after looking around the place, how did the five of us spend our golden two hours in the Telo?

We ordered beers from room service and watched the soccer match.

Part 2: Passion and Homesickness

Tango started in the slums of Buenos Aires in the 19th century when homesick soldiers, sailors and immigrants crowded into the bars and brothels, sharing the loneliness of exiles, mixing their national music to create the haunting tango sound.

Loneliness, despair, jealousy and homesickness--all are themes of Tango, considered the national music of Argentina. The accompanying dance, passionate, flamboyant and erotic, is said to distill and express the melancholy soul of Argentina. Tonight, it certainly is expressing mine.

Part 2: Lead me into Temptation

Steak for supper. Steak for lunch. And for supper, again. and again. Breakfast? Why not? Bistec, charred and crusty outside, perfectly pink inside, oozing its wonderful juices. At home, I’m not much of a meat-eater; I do the healthy, semi-veggie thing, greens and grains, indulging in a steak only once every few months or so. However, since arriving in Buenos Aires, I’ve been transformed like a werewolf under a full moon into a ravenous, snarling carnivore. I know a steady diet of beef is not in my best interest, but I’ve been seduced into the temptation of perfectly grilled bife.

Argentinians prepare meat in a very uncomplicated but delicious manner; every cut of beef imaginable (and some that aren’t) is laid over a wrought iron grill, a
Parilla, on top of smoldering wooden logs and cooked slowly to beefy perfection-- all that used to top it off is some garlicky chimichurri sauce.

Attending an asado is a crash course in South American culture; men prepare and cook the meat, while women prepare side dishes-although most Argentinians will scoff at the idea of accompanying one’s meat with something as silly as bread or salad--those just get in the way of enjoying one’s bife--although a side dish intended to enhance the bife is acceptable.

And of course, a perfectly prepared bife must be accompanied with a perfect Malbec--the world renowed deep red wine that has earned Argentina respect as one of the premier wine countries on the planet.

Vegetarian? maybe after I get home..

Part 2: Arrival in Argentina

Input: “The information is provided for students to gain the necessary knowledge”--Madeline Hunter

I have arrived in Buenos Aires, a day late-gracias to a Chilean volcano closing the airport and a little worse for the wear after 24 hours in the air.

I’m sharing a charming three bedroom apartment in a lovely neighborhood with the owner and my host mom, Haydee, (Heidi), a retired widowed elementary school teacher with patience as big as this city of seven million people. Haydee lives alone, but all of her four children live nearby and talk to her either in person or on the phone every day. We live in a very secure building on the third floor of a ten story building with a charming patio that I can imagine would be lovely in the summer.
Like most Portenos, Haydee lives in an apartment that by our standards would be small, but by Buenos Aires’ would be big. I have my own room at the end of the hall right next to the bath. Once she showed me that the light switches are side to side rather than up and down, and that the button to flush the stool is on the wall behind the device, I was relieved of a few initial awkward moments.
She provides me with two meals a day, breakfast and cena (supper), which normally isn’t until 9PM or later. Yesterday when I arrived, it was almost 2:00-- lunchtime--the main meal of the day. Haydee graciously invited me to share almuerzo after I got settled in. For each course she prepared, she took away our dishes and served the next course on a clean plate. First we had hard boiled eggs with tuna, then a shredded carrot and tomato salad, followed by a mountain of pasta with a light marinara sauce, then fresh fruit—all on a plate and always eaten with a knife and fork. If my American style of using a knife and fork was strange to them, they tactfully pretended not to notice. Tonight, boiled Brussels sprouts with baked zapallito, kind of like stuffed green peppers. I can’t wait! Here's Haydee in her cocina with zapallitos: