Riding, and rating, the colectivo

Riding the colectivo is a daily part of life in Buenos Aires. Colectivos are what locals call public buses, and during the daytime, they own the streets. It's rare to find one in the morning that isn't packed. And because the subway closes at 11 p.m., colectivos are usually the best option for late-night transportation as well. Buses run 24 hours down here, so even though late at night you might be waiting on a deserted street for 40 minutes, you at least know you're getting home eventually.

Finding the right bus can be a little intimidating at first. Before I became familiar with four or five of the routes that run near my apartment, I would spend upwards of half an hour leafing through the Guia T booklet, attempting in vain to match up streets with bus stops until I gave up and hailed a taxi. Those days are behind me, however; now I just use Google Maps and comoviajo.com to tell me what to do.

When in a foreign part of town for the first time, the first thing I notice are the buses. The kiosks, the buildings, the people, they all might look the same as those in any other neighborhood. But in a new area, the buses -- the ones you've never seen because they don't drive anywhere near your house or your school or your favorite bar -- always stand out. Each one has a unique design, and adds a splash of color to the streets.

With that, I found it appropriate to rate the colectivos. Not by timeliness or efficiency, even though it kills me when I see an uninterrupted line of six 108 buses when all I need is one in the other freaking direction. And not by pleasantness of ride, because that honor would go to any bus outfitted with LCD screens and blue mood lights. Instead, I'll evaluate the colectivos by the first thing one notices about them: their outer design. 

The champion

Línea 68 — If the other buses on this list are rolling pieces of art, then the 68 is a masterpiece. According to Wikipedia, the design is the work of a studio hired by the bus company, and the professionalism shows. Against the white background, the rounded, off-center 68 draws the attention of the viewer, and is accentuated by the disconnected circle surrounding it. The black and soft blue tiles, ostensibly without pattern, give the work a sense of spontaneity. The brilliant use of negative space allows the bold colors to jump out. Even its web site is silky smooth. This is a bus you stop and stare at as it whizzes past you. This is a modern classic.

The Mother of All Tinas

I've said "a mountain" instead of "a lot." I've said "the house of the twins" instead of "the twins' house." I've said "em…" instead of "um."

This is getting tina'd, a complex and multifaceted cultural phenomenon first observed by Important Scientists and later expounded upon in a Widely Respected Journal. It also Relates to Acadaemia and sometimes is discussed in Professional Settings.

I thought such verbal blunders comprised the only aspect of getting tina'd. But about two months ago I experienced a Silent Tina, meaning I got tina'd nonverbally, which is like the white buffalo of getting tina'd. To this day I often reach for the hyphen on my American computer when I really want the quotation mark.

However, nothing compares to the absurdly intricate tina I got a week ago.

It happened as my friend Maisie and I were trying to locate a bus stop. It was almost 3 a.m., and we had just finished participating in Buenos Aires's annual Night of the Museums, the annual event in which more than 170 museums across the city allow free entry all night.

We were keeping our eyes peeled for the 111 stop on Paseo Colon, a huge street with a thousand bus stops for a million buses give or take a few. I recognize the area we're on and I want to tell Maisie that I've gotten on the 111 bus before on this block.

My words: "I know I've picked it up somewhere around here."

I had a feeling I had just gotten tina'd because no one says they've "picked up" a bus unless they're, like, Mariusz Pudzianowski, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Clearly saying I've "caught" the bus would have sufficed. Thirty seconds later it hit me.

• The Spanish word for catch is coger
• But in Argentina, coger just so happens to be a curse word, meaning the F-verb. (Instead of "catching" a cab or a bus, Argentines use the word for "grab" or "take")
• Using Tina Logic™, I extended the taboo of coger to English, and subconsciously determined that "catch" was off limits in English as well
• I picked up a bus.

Hot date

Today's date is November 12, 2010, or 12/11/10 if written in the date/month/year format used here in Argentina. Seeing such an aesthetically pleasing date made me feel wickedly entitled when I realized Americans would never see such an oddity with their month/date/year format. Then, I realized they would, on December 11.

Thirteen hours at UCA

It's pretty nice only having school two days a week. I head down to class Tuesday, then Wednesday, and then I'm off to enjoy a five-day weekend. Some might say I have a lucky schedule, however, no luck was involved, my friend. I spent two full weeks tinkering my schedule, collecting syllabi, even going to class on my birthday until I found the perfect equilibrium between easiness of classes and perfectness of timing.

What I ended up with was a Wednesday with three classes, each of which lasts between three and four hours, and keeps me at UCA from 9:30 a.m. until 10:15 p.m.

So, what goes down on a typical Wednesday in my world? Let’s start from the beginning:

Spanish progress report

With less than a month and a half remaining in my semester in Argentina, the time has come to evaluate my progress in the Spanish language.  I have certainly come a long way — I remember how during my first week I was thrilled when I produced the pronominal phrase "nos pagan." Now, it takes more complex structures to shock me, like tonight, when I dropped "Lo podrias haber usado" when talking about a fork my roommate could have used, and then quickly started a conversation with a British friend about our Spanish progress to reaffirm how awesome I am.

The moment made me realize I've been venturing more and more into complex sentence territory. I'm not hanging out as much in the present tense like I used to. My weeks-old sentiment that I feel I use the same 25 or 30 verbs every day still applies, although the exceptions are beginning to come more frequently.

I found out "por lo tanto" means "therefore" and not "for the most part," which is how I've been using it for three and a half months.

Argentinafication update: I played basketball the other day, and as it was my first time playing in months, I was a little rusty. Every time the ball slipped or I missed an easy rebound, instead of groaning "Ugh," I let out the unmistakably Spanish "Ay!"

I've come to appreciate the language for the nuance in its expressions. For years I viewed Spanish as inferior to English when it came to description. And while it's true English has a more expansive lexicon — mainly because it tends to absorb the words of every other language — there are some tricks you can turn in Spanish that you can't in English. I love the "able" words: You can say a photo is "unshowable" or a party is "unmissable." I love how you can put the subject in any position in the sentence ("Yo comí el chorizo," or "Comí yo el chorizo,") or eliminate it entirely ("lo comí) depending on where you want the emphasis. And I love how you can tack on up to two pronouns to the end of any verb — "Dámelo" expresses "give it to me" in six letters.

There are certain English words that are untranslatable, such as "quaint," or the quasi-slang concepts of "awkward" and "random." But I've come to realize  that the discrepancy isn't a failure on the part of Spanish. It's just one aspect of what makes English, or any other language, unique. It will probably take years before I grasp all the subtleties and nuances of Spanish speech, although I'm now intrigued by the prospect of learning them.

And, to not end on a cheesy note, here is what Dominican baseball commentator Ernesto Jerez shouts every time someone hits a home run. It's the baseball equivalent of "GOOOOOOOL!"

I have decided I will scream it the first time I correctly say something in the imperfect past subjunctive.

Stop the presses: Mark dreamed in Spanish

Contrary to popular belief, there is no correlation between dreaming in another language and fluency in that language. It is possible for you to dream in a language you only know a few phrases of, or one you haven't spoken since you were a child. I didn't know this fact, however, until I began writing this blog post and had to research the subject. Before today, an irrationally large amount of my self worth was hinging on whether I would have a dream in Spanish before I left Argentina.

Last night, I did.


All the international students at my school went on a trip to a most likely fictional location in Argentina. After arriving at the hotel, we were divided into groups and told that the following morning we would be competing in a relay race across the entire town.

For some reason I was given the disproportionately long eight-mile leg. I am the only person on any team designated a task of such length. This concerns me, as apart from a few alcohol-assisted sprints down Avenida Córdoba, I haven't gotten too much physical training down here.

I nevertheless accept the challenge. The following morning, I line up at the starting line. The race has now transformed into a full-fledged marathon. I am terrified. The gun goes off and I take off. But before I get very far, I am stopped to attend a series of business meetings, which are conveniently located alongside the marathon course, which has now moved indoors. The parents of American Idol season 8 finalist and UNC alumnus Anoop Desai were observing from the balcony, but I think that's because American Idol season 8 finalist and UNC alumnus Anoop Desai was somewhere in the building competing in a singing contest.

Because I kept getting tied up by these business meetings, by the end of the day I have traversed less than one mile of the 26.2-mile course. I recognize my progress as slower than desired, so  I promise to myself I will run at least 13 miles the next day of the marathon. I go back to my hotel to get a good night's rest.

The next morning, the marathon is still miraculously going on, because in my dream world, marathons evidently function like the Iditarod.

Here's the part where my memory gets fuzzy. Next thing I remember is I'm outside a packed school auditorium. Everyone is exiting the auditorium and starts navigating the hallway to get to the exit of the building. I'll never know if I ever finished that marathon, but I'm going to assume that I didn't, because who finishes a marathon in two days?

Anyway I happen to be sitting in the hallway outside the auditorium, spinning a dreidel. When the doors open, I am now blocking the pack of people who are trying to walk through the hallway. But rather than get out of the way, I start doing that thing where you flick the side of a dreidel while it's spinning to make it spin even more. And the people behind me don't walk around me; they just politely wait for me to achieve my task. I keep flicking the dreidel, spinning it forward a few feet, and every time I flick it forward I scooch up a bit and the crowd follows.

Eventually we must have reached a big intersection in the hallway because pretty soon all the people disappeared, and I was by myself, just flicking the spinning dreidel forward foot by foot. Then a Latino couple emerged, probably in their late 20s, and I noticed in front of us a few movie posters lining the walls, including All the Right Moves starring Tom Cruise. They asked me in Spanish when that movie came out, because they presumably had never heard of it. I answered (IN SPANISH!) that I thought it came out around the early 90s.

Then, in real life, my roommate Jorge knocks on my door and enters the room, waking me up. He says some Spanish stuff I didn't understand, and left when he realized I had been sleeping. Dude, you don't go ruining people's dreams like that. I don't care if it's 2 p.m.

So the actual Spanish part of the dream may have only lasted two sentences. And it turns out All the Right Moves came out in 1983. But tonight I will try my hardest to track down the couple and let them know. And if I have the time, strike up some more conversation.