Anything Is Possible

Today, while in the shower, narrating my thoughts in the Spanish-language monologue constantly running through my head, I naturally manufactured the sentence "Mi amiga me lo hizo" (my friend made it for me). I didn't realize the magnitude of the situation at first, as I was momentarily stunned that I had pieced together two pronouns and the correctly conjugated third person past tense verb. But after quickly confirming the accuracy of each sentence element, I became overcome by the most tremendous feeling of unbridled joy since I played EQUINOX with a blank as the X in a Scrabble game two years ago. Unfortunately, I was confined by the walls of the shower, otherwise I would have done my trademark rip off my shirt and run around the house shouting like a maniac celebration. Thus I had to make do with shampoo-drenched fist-pumping interspersed with English-language cursing. In my mind however, I was unleashing a savage Kevin Garnett scream, and in the post-sentence interview, thanking my psychiatrist and members of my hood.

I got out of the shower and shared my moment of victory with my Colombian roommate Luis, who informed me that, as my sentence concerned the feminine object pulsera (bracelet), the correct phrase is "me la hizo."

Rules of the Subte

The Subte, the subterranean public transportation system of Buenos Aires, is similar to the subways of New York and other major cities (lack of Helvetica signs notwithstanding). As tickets cost just more than a quarter, taking it is the most efficient way to get around town. Naturally, the Subte cars get packed, especially during peak traffic hours at the beginning and end of the workday. I take the B line to get to class and back — about 15 minutes each way — and after 40 trips or so I think I've got a handle on standard Subte passenger protocol. 


Rules of the Subte:
1. Stare mindlessly into space for the duration of your trip. Talking is prohibited. Similarly, facial expressions other than unaffected nonchalance are frowned upon.
2. Do not acknowledge the person whose face is six centimeters away from your face.
3. If you are riding the Subte with your significant other, make out with that person until you reach your destination.
4. Do not acknowledge the packs of Kleenex, Barbie stickers or Nike socks peddlers place on your knee.
5. When you are standing and someone vacates the seat in front of you, do not rush to sit in it. Wait approximately 8 seconds before non-verbally communicating to nearby passengers your desire to sit there. Despite the competitive nature of seat obtainment, you don't want to be viewed as selfish and needy for the remainder of the journey.


Let me know if you have any more suggestions. If you've ridden a subway before, you probably have an idea of what it's like. I'm still trying to figure out how some of the sitting people manage to doze off for 10 minutes on a crowded, rickety, thunderously loud train and wake up right as the train rolls up to their stop.

Son, daughter of God

Given that I go to a Catholic university, the religious imagery behind these bathroom signs is striking. Intentional? You decide.

Although, the guy is still handicapped, so...

Temple-hopping

I've been to three synagogues in two weeks and each has a completely different feel. Which is good — I expected quite a bit of variety in a city with one of the 10 biggest Jewish populations in the world. At times I would stare into space blankly during the Spanish-language sermons, but when the Hebrew prayers started back up I felt right at home. With prayers in Hebrew, Jews can participate anywhere in the world. I also spent much of services zoning out and thinking about things more entertaining than synagogue, which is something I do in American synagogues quite a bit as well.


The fun came after services, though. After kiddush at the first synagogue, the Conservative Kol Amijai, the 25 or so congregants filed upstairs into a small room to talk some Torah. I sat in between two gentlemen whose combined age was likely in the low 200s. Torah Talk also included Snack Time, so while the Rabbi said some Jewish stuff I didn't understand, I was keeping my eye on the bags of candy and biscuit cookies circulating around the table. 


At least three of the oldsters had brought their own alcohol, which quickly began making its rounds. I went for a yummy smelling red liqueur that tasted exactly like Cherry NyQuil, only it made me feel better. 


I spent this past Shabbat evening at one of the Chabad houses in Palermo, my district of the city. I felt slightly sacrilegious pulling up to shul in a taxi but I'm pretty sure no one noticed. I was able to walk right in this synagogue, unlike Kol Amijai, where as a newcomer, I needed to sound a buzzer and talk to the security guard, who essentially interrogated me about my character and intent, and even threw in a few Jewish trivia questions, before granting me access to services. I don't blame them though. With radical Islamic terrorist groups setting up shop in neighboring Paraguay and Brazil, in the middle of Catholic country, I'd probably be cautious too. 


Throughout services I was distracted by all the glorious facial hair surrounding me. I don't know if beards grow at a faster rate in Latin America but I'd be willing to wager a buck or two. The coup de grace came when I saw the rabbi and his interminably long, gray beard for the first time at the pulpit in the center of the room. I did a double take. I swear I thought he was wearing a novelty beard from Party City. ZZ Top has nothing on Rabino Shlomo Levy. The thing stretched easily down to his belt buckle. His beard can't even be captured on camera in its entirety.


After services I stuck around for Chabad's patented free Kosher dinner and singling out of an uncomfortable Mark Abadi. I picked a seat in the crowded room and was asked to scoot down one, unaware I would now be sitting next to Rabbi ZZ Top. He slapped me on the back and rubbed my head a few times throughout the night but I think he did that to all the guys. After some small talk he turned to the person on his other side and I let out a sigh of relief that nearly blew out the Shabbat candles. 


Luckily for me I was not the only foreigner to receive a L'chaim; also present were a Brazilian woman and a group of Israeli girls who sounded awesome when they said "muchas gracias" with an Israeli accent. The meal was incredible, and very well may have constituted my first portion of vegetables since arriving in Buenos Aires two weeks ago (I'm up to three now!). I spent the majority of dinner studying the individual strands of ZZ Top's beard as they cascaded down his face and meandered onto his pants.


Saturday morning I took the subway to a Sephardic synagogue that had the most people of the three, at least 150. I actually had no idea what was going on during services as people were either talking or shushing the people that were talking, making it impossible to hear. However I was impressed that the book rack in front of each seat came installed with a  drop-down shtender, one of my favorite pieces of Jewish equipment.


I stuck around for a small lunch. A kid asked me where I'm from and when I said the United States he asked me if I liked the L.A. Galaxy soccer team. He's not the first person to ask me that, so I'd imagine Major League Soccer officials would be happy to hear their brand is making its way overseas. The reason is most likely David Beckham's short stint with the team, but I'd like to think Landon Donovan's World Cup performance sparked an international interest in American soccer. 


I imagine wearing fancy clothes makes you a target so I tried especially hard not to get mugged on the way home.

Cross-hemispheric frugality

Just got back from a Chinese market down the street from my new apartment. I bought two bags of fake vanilla Oreos, one bag of al Plato barbecue potato sticks, two bananas and a bag of milk. Total cost: 15.26 pesos, or $3.89. 


Also, commuting to school every morning, I pass about five street vendors cooking giant flour patties. Essentially it's a steaming hot slab of bread as big as a medium-sized pizza. I bought one today for 2.5 pesos, or 64 cents. It's enough for breakfast and lunch. 

My Wealth Comes to Me

Buenos Aires is widely recognized as one of the premier food destinations in the world. They do steak, pasta and even croissants unlike anywhere I've ever been. Yet the delicacy that has made the biggest impression on me so far has been 3D Mega-Tube Mega-Queso chips.

Hot damn these things are good. It's like someone took a bag of Bugles, punched it in the groin with a boxing glove made of molten nacho cheese, injected it with a shot of testosterone and delivered it to every roadside kiosk in Buenos Aires. Mega-tubes resemble Bugles in shape but are slightly puffier yet just as crispy, with an addictive cheese coating that tastes somewhere in between Cheetos and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. 


Never once have I opened a bag of 3D Mega-Tube Mega Queso and not finished it. Interestingly enough, after looking at the nutrition facts for the first time today, I learned that a serving of Mega-Tubes is 25 grams, meaning I have been eating more than 3.5 servings of this stuff a day several days this week. Que será, Que será.

Marching for Evita

A few hostel dwellers and I were watching The Soloist in the TV room one evening a week ago, my second day in the city. A murmuring crowd on the street two stories down distracted us from time to time. But the faint buzz steadily grew into booming chants coming from a crowd pounding on drums and shooting off fireworks at a volume so loud I could no longer focus on the movie. I stepped out to the balcony and noticed this:

The man's banner reads Sindicato de camioneros: rama de agua gaseosa (Union of truck drivers: soda water division). Hidden from sight are the thousands of activists I would get a firsthand look at over the following hour or so.

I ran down the street to see a horde of green-clad soda water people slowly marching down Avenida Belgrano. Or rather, marching 50 yards, stopping for 20 minutes to sing and bang on their instruments and marching again.

But the soda drivers were not the only union present. As they progressed down the street, they revealed an endless sea of marchers behind them, equally enthusiastic and equipped with noisemakers. Metalworkers. Cab drivers. Tobacco farmers. I kept wondering, what cause would prompt such an immense gathering of workers?


After a bit of digging, I discovered the march was in honor of Eva Perón, the beloved wife of former president Juan Perón. Today, July 26, was the 58th anniversary of her death, and as she had championed the labor rights that defined Peronist politics, the union members took to the streets to honor her. I am not very familiar with Peronism or even Argentinian politics in general, but the march, which lasted well into the night, at least gave me an idea of the political climate here.


To view additional signs, which happen to be printed in the Impact typeface, kindly click here.

Sindicato Unidos Portuarios Argentinos (port workers)