Cordoba, Argentina

“Let’s go somewhere together,” is not something you expect to hear from the mouths of four people who live together, eat together, play together and sleep together. But that sentence was the beginning of a trip that solidified friendships, created inside jokes and fostered a feeling of local family for me.

Who: Samm (Chicago), Jake (Wisconsin), Kelly (my college friend), Megan (Chicago) and myself
What: A weekend trip together before Samm and Jake returned home.
Where: Cordoba, Argentina
When: July 16-18
Why: Because spending every waking (and sleeping) moment together in Buenos Aires just wasn’t enough – we wanted to do it somewhere new.

We decided on Cordoba as the destination for our little family vacation because it was close and affordable. Samm, Jake and Kelly requested the weekend off from the bar and Megan called in sick with a fake case of scabies (at least she’s original). Like many of our trips, we didn’t really know what to expect from Cordoba nor did we care to do any research. All we needed to know was that it would take about 12 hours by bus to get there and we were all going together. The plan was that there was no plan.

We booked our hostel a couple hours before going to the bus station…the first time. Unfortunately, an oddly common bus strike delayed our departure a few hours – forcing us to load our backpacks back into cabs, return home, order empanadas, sleep for a couple hours and try again around 6 a.m.

We spent our first day/night in Cordoba much like our typical days/nights in Buenos Aires. We sat at a restaurant eating empanadas, drinking Quilmes and playing cards. And much like in Buenos Aires – our game of choice started as Kings and progressed to simply “never have I ever” and “truth or dare.” We followed the hostel band to a local club/bar that night where we continued to socialize with…well, ourselves. After Jake convinced us all that this club would be a “great place for a DJ” we went home, climbed into our bunk beds and went to bed giggling with each other.

Jake @ Studio Theatre

There are so many moments that I could write to portray how entertaining and fabulous my friends are. There are so many memories that I hold dear and will reflect on with laughter and a full heart. But this Saturday in Cordoba, Argentina may go down in history as the most I have ever laughed in one day.

The day started around noon when we stumbled upon Superpark – a rundown theme park devoid of visitors and regulations. Since we had no plan and nowhere to be, we rode as many rides as possible. We screamed sarcastically on the slowest children’s rollercoaster ever made, scream threats as we rammed each other in bumper cars, screamed from disgust at the odd sights in the haunted house and screamed frantically on the Terminator. The Terminator is one of those tomahawk rides found at most state fairs that flip you upside-down - but it’s a little different in Argentina. My usual theme park pep talk of “they wouldn’t let people ride this if it was dangerous” was negated by the scary realization that Argentina doesn’t have the same regulations as the States. My hands clenched the rickety buckles barely holding me inside the rusty cage as loose change fell from my purse (which they let me carry on the ride!) and jingled to the ground about 80 feet below me.

slowest rollercoaster ever

Terminator - the ride

We eventually tore ourselves away from Superpark to explore the rest of Cordoba. We wandered through beautiful parks and pleasant city streets – taking pictures and picking up stray dogs along the way. Samm loves dogs and can’t walk passed one without petting it, so we made canine friends all over the city. There was one particular dog that we named Terminator and viewed as our loyal companion for most of the day. Without getting into the graphic details, I’ll just say that the friendship ended when Terminator picked up a dead pigeon on the sidewalk, chased us with it and then proceeded to eat it!

Terminator - the dog

Megan, Samm, Kelly, Jake and Terminator

Terminator chasing Megan with pigeon in mouth

I could write pages about playing in parks, running from Terminator, laughing over meals/beers and 3Ds bags, joking about running out on our Mexican dinner bill, disturbing pigeon experiences and sharing bottles of wine and heart-to-hearts on the bus ride home. I saw beauty and history in the churches and monuments of Cordoba – but the most important thing I can write is this: my most treasured memories of Cordoba are of the people I walked the streets with; not the streets I walked.

Man selling food in the park

"Memoria - Verdad - Justicia"

Memorial to commemorate some of the 30,000 people abducted during Argentina's "Dirty Wars"

Inglesia Catedral

Megan throwing a coin into the fountain in front of the Cordoba Supreme Court.

Montevideo

I’d like to describe my living arrangement for those of you who haven’t caught glimpses of it in the background as we chat on Skype. My first couple months in Buenos Aires were spent in a quaint, one-bedroom apartment with my friend Kelly. The roughly 600 square feet could easily be considered a downgrade from my three-bedroom house in Tampa, but I loved it just the same.

Kelly and I learned to laugh at the daily annoyances our apartment provided. There were nights when it would take us hours to light the gas oven while our uncooked, seasoned fish taunted us on the counter. Our thin walls were constantly penetrated by the obnoxious buzzer alerting us of an open elevator door floors below us. My Skype conversations consisted mostly of "you're frozen" and "are you there?" due to our weak ("borrowed") Internet connection. I tried to convince myself I was saving the environment during each of my two-minute showers in subzero water. I eventually learned to cohabitate with the small bugs that traversed my counters, sinks and trash. I even found a comfortable sleeping position on my mattress that must have been previously occupied by a sumo wrestler. But I had to wonder each time I handed over the stack of pesos for rent if the price fit the accommodations.

One night I was sitting at my friend Samm’s apartment discussing how Kelly and I were looking for a new place to live when one sentence changed everything: “You should move in here!” A few days later Kelly and I repacked our suitcases and small collection of belongings passed down from fellow expats returning home and moved into our new apartment…next door! We literally moved into the building next door.

Our new two-bedroom apartment is bigger, cleaner and much nicer. It’s ideal for entertaining guests and comes with an oven that works, hot water, a doorman downstairs and lifelong friends. We moved in with Samm (from Chicago), Denise (from Ecuador) and our honorary roommate, Jake (from Wisconsin). Samm and Jake have since moved back home, but Kelly and I shared our new apartment and our lives with them for six unforgettable, indescribable weeks!

This apartment doesn't come without its own little quirks though. Our room only has one bed, the Internet can be fickle and I burned my hand trying to relight the gas water heater for the shower. Most of you are probably stuck on the one bed comment (shame on you for not caring about my burned hand). Well...Samm, Kelly and I shared one massive bed. Some might view that as an inconvenience, but for us it meant cheaper rent, closer friendships, entertaining bedtime stories and a non-stop slumber party!

living room of our first apartment on Montevideo

left: old building / right: new building (photo taken from my friend Pachu's balcony across the street)

roommates celebrating Samm's birthday (left-right: Kelly, Samm, Jake, Me)

...I'll add a picture of the new apartment when it's clean :)

Can you hear me now?

I have a running list of subjects that I want to blog about and keep telling myself I'll get to eventually. There are details of trips, International friends and random observations that I want to share with my friends and family back home. Soon I will find the time to sit down and craft the stories with the perfect combination of words to create the mental images I want to convey for you all.

While I realize I should write about the above things first, something happened this moment that I felt compelled to document. I'm sitting in Starbucks attempting to write my articles for the day. Writing my articles usually consists of hours of surfing the web, gchatting and Facebooking with clusters of uninterrupted writing dispersed throughout. I was concentrating heavily on one of my very important Facebook posts when a couple girls came and sat across from me. The common courtesy before sitting across from someone on the couches in Starbucks seems to be eye contact with a quizzical nod toward the chairs and perhaps even an "ocupado?" I noticed these girls right away as they sat without extending the common courtesy. Then they started speaking English!

I was stunned by how odd it felt to hear an English conversation taking place right in front of me. I speak English with my friends down here, but I don't hear the language used around me very often. I sat here listening to them talk and thought about how awkward it was. Then I realized something interesting - yes, it was awkward listening to the English language but what was most uncomfortable was the way it was being used. These girls were speaking about Argentina and their experiences as if those around them didn't exist. They clearly assumed I couldn't understand English and felt comfortable filling the quiet atmosphere with their boisterous gossip about techno dance clubs, rude Argentines and things the US "does better." I was immediately annoyed with their ignorance and complete disregard for the ears surrounding them. I found myself irritated with the rude Americans and defensive of the country I now call home, the people I've grown to love and the language I so desperately want to learn.

Suddenly I realized something that I've probably been guilty of myself: one should always speak as if someone around you is listening (and can understand you) - if not to spare the feelings of others, then at least to spare the image of yourself...and your country!

As they were discussing the interesting fashion trends in Argentina, I gently placed my computer on the table between us and kindly asked them in my sweet southern dialect if they could watch my things while I got a coffee. A look of shock spread across their faces and embarrassment colored their cheeks as I turned and walked to the counter.

Northern Argentina

On June 2, 2010, I boarded another bus for an adventure in northern Argentina. It is remarkable how many beautiful places there are in South America that I was clueless about before I moved here. Salta is one of those places.

I refer to this trip as my trip to Salta but that’s not completely accurate. Salta is a city in northern Argentina that is commonly used as a base for exploring the surrounding villages, mountains and salt flat. Kelly, Samm (from Chicago) and I took the 24-hour bus from Buenos Aires to Salta and met our friends Damien (from France) and Ashley (from Chicago). We rented a car and immediately set out for Purmamarca.

After stopping excessively to take pictures, relieve our bladders and trade seats, we arrived in Purmamarca after dark and drove to the first hostel we could find. The town felt small and empty as we unloaded our bags and sat down for dinner at the hostel restaurant. We decided to forgo wandering the empty dirt roads of the cold, dark town and played card games instead as we enjoyed the live music, wine and llama empanadas.

I woke up the next morning in Purmamarca and couldn’t believe the beauty outside of my window. We drove into a town with no streetlights after dark and consequently missed how beautifully place the little village was. Just outside of my window was the famous Cerro de los Siete Colores (Hill of Seven Colors). We spent the morning wandering the quaint, pleasant market streets of a town that felt cold and eerie the night before and then walked up the multicolored mountain – taking pictures each step of the way.

Purmamarca

Cerro de los Siete Colores

After we counted the colors of the mountain and Damien saw and touched (while not without warning) his first cactus, we continued north to the salt flat. Damien drove us through winding mountains as his American passengers sang Disney songs and old childhood favorites to pass the time. The large white land was designed like honeycombs of rough, hard, dirty salt that stretch all the way to the mountains on every side. I wish I could describe it better, but I’ll have to let the pictures help me here. Once we grew tired of slicing our hands, elbows and knees on the salt while taking funny pictures, we piled back in the car and continued north again to Humahuaca.

approaching the salt flat

(left-right: Me, Ashley, Samm, Kelly, Damien)

It is said that Humahuaca is the most populated settlement in the historical Quebrada de Humahuaca. To give you an idea of what “most populated” means – there was one bar (though we never found it), one hostel, one grocery store and a couple restaurants. We went out in search of the phantom Humahuaca bar but quickly returned to our hostel to be close to our sacred heater. The nights were cold in northern Argentina and it was almost unbearable to be outside – especially when there wasn’t anything to do.

The next morning we woke up, got on a freezing cold bus and began what was one of the longest, most difficult days of our northern Argentina trip. We spent five agonizing hours getting to and from Iruya, a small town hidden deep in the middle of the mountains outside of Humahuaca. My hands clenched the seat in front of me as the bus took sharp turns at dangerously high speeds. I pretended I didn’t notice that the only thing between the bus tire and a steep drop down the side of the mountain was less than a foot of loose rocks. We were jolted from our seats as the old, metal freezer we were sitting in bounced around on top of boulders and forged small rivers. Occasionally the bus would stop to pick up a local gaucho, and I would look out over the grassy mountains as far as the eye could see and wonder where the hell that person came from and where they were going! My knuckles were white, my legs were weak and my faith was stronger when we arrived safely in the hidden town of Iruya.

As with many of the places we visited on this trip, there wasn’t a lot to do in Iruya. We took pictures, enjoyed a playground with local children, ate lunch in a house disguised as a restaurant and watched a futbol match on a field wedged between two mountains. The people were friendly - if not completely oblivious to our presence. There was something beautiful about the culture of a village that can survive alone in the middle of nowhere… and yet simultaneously endure the quizzical eyes of foreign visitors.

driving through the mountains to Iruya

Iruya

little boy in Iruya

We spent our last day and night in Salta, exploring the base for our travels and singing along with the hostel band. During this trip I saw colors combined by nature in ways I’d never imagined and mountains that looked like jawbreakers. I stood on salt AND the Tropic of Capricorn! I met locals in hidden villages and played with children who rarely see their pictures on digital cameras. But if asked what my favorite part of the journey was – I’d have to say the company. Kelly, Samm, Ashley, Damien and I had a dynamic that made the trip everything it was. It just wouldn’t have been the same without Ashley’s hostel research and music, Damien’s driving and planning skills, Samm’s humor and impeccable memory of Disney songs and Kelly’s allergic reaction to altitude and salt (it’s sad but funny…she looked like the Michelin man the whole trip).

I heart Colonia

A US citizen with a visitor’s visa in Argentina can only live here for three months at a time without leaving the country. The simple solution for leaving the country is to visit Argentina’s neighbor, Uruguay. Many expats view Colonia, Uruguay as nothing more than the place they had to visit to renew their visa, though some find the beauty in the small town. Kelly and I weren’t sure what to expect when we boarded the early morning ferry and crossed the ocean for the day on May 26.

Colonia is an uneventful 45-minute boat ride from Buenos Aires and, appropriately, an uneventful city. It’s the oldest city in Uruguay and is known for the historic buildings lining cobblestone streets. For me it will forever be known as a quaint, picturesque town providing the perfect break from the busy, dog-shit streets of Buenos Aires where I got to enjoy the ocean, wander aimlessly through colorful streets and exchange smiles with friendly locals.

Our natural instinct was to walk toward the water – after exchanging our Argentine pesos to Uruguayan pesos and drinking coffee, of course. We spent the day following the coast along the edge of the historic district, taking pictures of the scenery and engaging in casual conversation with street vendors. We even made new friends from Florida while dangling our feet off the edge of the pier. It could have been the ocean or the obvious historical significance, but Colonia reminded me of a Spanish-speaking combination of St. Augustine and Stuart, Fla.

At the end of our seven hours in Uruguay I had a handmade leather bracelet from Paul (a street vendor), a camera full of photographs, renewed confidence in the kindness of South Americans, new friends and a deep appreciation and love for Colonia, Uruguay.

May 13, 2010

I woke up on the morning of May 13 with a feeling the world had shifted. I checked my e-mail with a heavy heart to find my Granddad died around 8:20 a.m. in a hospice bed in Jacksonville, Fla. Through a broken Internet connection and streaming tears, I called my dad.

If you know my father you will understand how our hearts are connected. You’ll also understand that while he has a broken heart, he would never let mine hurt for a second. The first thing he said was “Hey baby girl, I was just lying in the backyard listening to Black Betty.” I instantly felt better. We talked about life and death for a while and shared stories and little inside jokes about my Granddad. My Dad, true to form, subtly guided the conversation in a direction that made me feel comfortable with my physical distance from family as he knew that’s what I needed before hanging up.

When I got off the phone, I was determined to do something great, to see something great, to experience something great on this terrible day. I wanted to find something that made my absence from my family seem a little less painful. I looked through a book on Buenos Aires but nothing seemed worthy of my attention. I settled on the Plaza de Mayo – named after the date Buenos Aires politically separated from Spain and occupied by Casa Rosada, where Eva Peron preached from the balcony to impassioned Argentines. I walked peacefully along historic buildings that lined the plaza and thought of my Granddad.

My Granddad didn’t believe in life after death, which is something I often wonder about myself. As I stared at the architecture reflecting distinct times in history, I realized it’s not just about where you’re going after you die. It’s where you were while you were alive. My Grandfather may not have designed a building that generations to come will admire, but he created generations to come! He created life…and a lot of it. Wherever he is, he created life after his death. I am here because of him. My children will be here because of him.

Then as I turned down Calle Florida (Florida Street – seems only appropriate that I found myself there), I realized I didn’t need to see something great on this particular day, because I am living something great! And for that I am eternally grateful.

William George Holland / Granddaddy / 1923-2010

Casual Conversations

Nobody wants to feel left out of a conversation or a joke. There’s no worse feeling than that of the outside, but I’ve had to learn to accept that feeling. While living in Buenos Aires, I’ve been left out of casual street conversations, idle banter with cab drivers, small talk in shops and even necessary exchanges between servers and patrons. I never realized how much I enjoyed overhearing a mother caution her child of crossing the street or a server repeatedly describe the restaurant’s specials. Unfortunately, all I hear now is Spanish. Everything is foreign, in the most literal sense, and I’m stuck on the outside.

We went to dinner during my first month here with some of Kelly’s local friends. I met many of the girls when I first arrived, but this was a birthday celebration so the group was much larger. I sat on the plush, white couch at the dinner table flanked by beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed Argentine girls and couldn’t help but think of the “which of these doesn’t belong” game. It was established early in the night that I could understand “un poco” Spanish and could speak even less. And by “it was established,” I mean it was blatantly obvious by the doe-eyed, overwhelmed look plastered on my pale American face.

Spanish greetings and kisses evolved quickly into Spanish conversations and I became lost. I listened intently to the conversations surrounding me and could pick up little details… I could tell they were talking about traveling, but I didn’t know if they were reminiscing or making plans. I heard her mentioned her boyfriend, but I couldn’t decipher his role in the story. I smiled most of the night and tried to mimic the expression of fellow listeners when appropriate. Occasionally one of the girls would turn to me with an English sentence summarizing the story or, more commonly, a dumbed-down Spanish sentence spoken slowly for me to follow. I would then join the girls in laughter but couldn’t help feeling like I missed the humor in the anecdote. It was said right in front of me and I missed it.

I felt left out, despite the generosity of the Argentines consciously trying to involve me and despite Kelly serving as my translator. I sought solace in the one familiar thing at the table, a Heineken, and thought about how desperately I need to learn Spanish. Fortunately for me, I’m in a country that gives me no choice. I’m looking forward to the day that I can understand the people on the streets, cab drivers, store attendants, waiters and local friends. I'm slowly getting there...very slowly.