Host family

When i got to Rosario everyone i talked to about my trip alone in BA couldn´t believe that i was loco enough to do that. My host father, for example, asked me several times if i was safe.

I met my host family yesturday afternoon when my host sister Coti (Cotianza--who is the only daughter living at home) and Jorgina (sp?) came to pick me up. I think Sumi (who knew their family when she was here) showed them a picture of me or something because i remember these two women point at me when i entered the hotel. The thing about Argentines is that all of them are very touchy (kisses on the cheek in greetings) and pats on the shoulders. I was suprised but have gotten used to the affection.

Coti is very nice and very energetic. Jorgina does not live at home but does work at home (her doctor´s office is through a door in the living room). There are two other girls that i haven´t met yet and a son that i have. Rodrigo is my host brother and he is apparently very busy so he doesn´t keep a very regular schedule. My host mother works all day somewhere i never found out where and then comes home to see clients for her homemade clothing. My host father speaks no english and is VERY hard to understand when he speaks to me. Very sweet though. They are all very nice and i am looking forward to talking more with them. The kids speak some english, actually more then i speak spanish, so we are helping each other out.

Tango Backpacker and Empanadas

Tango Backpacker, Hosteling Intl.
Thames y Paraguay 2122
Buenas Aires, Argentina

Travel advisory: "do not stay in hostels in BA, they tend to be unsafe and thefts abundant"

I share a room with three scottish girls my age who use the room like one giant closet which avalanches onto the floor, all over the extra beds and locker tops. I think its safe to take faith that if a theft were to occur in our room, it would be from the girl's things. Who needs to dig through theirs to find my dusty backpack?

So far in my solo exploring of BA i have failed to find the Atlantic Ocean and have been given pity with my empanadas. The Atlantic, i now realize doesn't even touch BA because BA isnt a coastal city like world maps would have you believe, its a river city. Its on a gi-narmus hu-mongus river delta called the rio plata. I think its the largest spanning delta in the world. So, not the Atlantic. Sigh. I found instead miles of manicured parks with couples dancing tango, ponds, subway tunnels illustrated with giant black and white cartoons and the city zoo featuring north american cattle.
Pity and empanadas are my food of choice. The first night i got into BA i found an empanada shop down the block from the hostel. I went in and found an older woman and her two sons cooking up trays of delicious goodness. I was so tired and additionally insecure about ordering anything in spanish that i kind of just stood there at the door open mouthed. I know i looked ridiculous. Finally the woman came out from behind the shop desk and pulled me forward. She asked me where i was from and what i wanted to eat. I ordered a plate of BA style empanadas (every providence has their own special variety unique to their state) with potatos and corned beef. I passed the woman the smallest bill i had, 50 pesos. She looked at it and then at me. Then raised the bill to the light over her head to verify it had a water mark. Apparently it passed and she gave me back a handful of cash. I took my food up to the roof of the hostel, sat under a ledge while it rained and ate. The rain fell down with humid breezes. The view was completly obstructed by taller narrow housing buildings. And everything was covered in an orange haze. Almost an electrifying experience.

The next morning i walked past the empanada shop and the woman ran me down the street. She passed me her buisness card and told me to call her if i needed help while in the country. I wished i still had that.

A buenos aires y beyond

I must admit that when i finally got into the BA terminal and out into the exitting lobby, i was completely unsure what to do. I had been preparing so long for the trip itself that i had not given much thought of what to do once i found myself there. I mean, i knew i was supposed to find a taxi or bus into the city and to my hostel. But how does one flag a taxi with hundreds of people crowding around you in every direction, pushing at you, pulling at you and yelling at you to exchange your money with them and not the official cambio in the corner.
An older man came up to me and asked to help me. I showed him the hostel address and he pulled me towards the great big taxi stand in the middle of the lobby which i somehow didn't realize was there. While i thought at the time he must be very kind in helping me out, he was passed a few pesos from a taxi man for what i assume was attracting business.
The taxi i arranged was an old thin man with a golf hat and no english understanding. Within a few moments we were off and i had already committed two social fobas (sp?); i took the front passenger seat and i buckled my seat belt.

Danielle tells me that spanish cities are "a spanish kind of dirty" which does not imply to mean that they are dirty themselves. I beg to differ, Buenos Aires is quite dirty. And huge. And sprawling out in all directions into a dirty brown haze. From the EZE airport it took over 30 minutes to drive into the Palermo district where i was staying. These minutes were not spent going through fields like i imagined but rather to just cross from barrio to barrio. Everywhere were housing buildings in all states of repair. Along the road many of these were rather just shelters made from plastic tarp and tin sheeting. Crumbled bricks lined unevenly white washed buildings.

Into the newer section of the city we had to pass a toll booth. The driver rolled down his window and presented his ticket. When he reached out, i had a heart attack! The taxi driver's phone rang-- it was the same ring tone and nextel phone model of the RA oncall phone i used. When i didn't wake up and find myself back in ondine with a late night lockout, i came to the harsh realization that i was no longer in Kansas-- i mean home. I was compeletly out of my comfort zone, jetlagged, and unable to communicate. I was at the mercy of a stranger almost 5,000 miles from home. And i was too, all of these things, to care.

Picture is a toll booth but not one in BA.

Airports are funny places...

4,900 miles and 10 hours out of Atlanta, I find myself in Santiago de Chile.

In airports you can find all sorts of people. We have our british couple playing cards stamped with the british flag. And we have the American sore thumbs, or at least I can only assume they are American. The 6 or 7 year old boy is even wearing the family's coordinated outfit: overalls, boots, and red flannel jacket topped with a blazingly white cowboy hat. The daughter wears a sundress and white bonnet, whose purpose I do not understand. Last I checked the window, we were still in winter circled by the snow-capped Andes.
I am not one to talk, I know. I did not pack a coat into my carry on and I am still wearing my little red sandles.

I know everyone is wondering if I speak any spanish and the question is simply... no. When I got into this terminal a man and a woman in blue uniforms stopped me and asked me where I was going--at least thats what i thought i heard. It was just a stream of words and a "a buenos aires" thrown in there somewhere. I nodded and they left me alone. Alone in the terminal with no idea where i was going. I found an escalator with an arrow. When i reached the top, a starbucks banner came into view and right behind that-- a dunkin donuts... and right behind these, the Andes. So, somewhere almost 5,000 miles from home i sit and wait. Sippin' on coffee i procured with hand gestures.