Safety standard differences are another thing. In Argentina I´m not sure there even is a standard.  On my flight from BA back to New York, I sat next to an Argentine woman with a baby.  At first I thought ¨oh this is going to be a long flight,¨ but the baby didn´t make a peep the entire time and fell asleep in the woman´s arms.  A few hours later she got up to go to the bathroom, to my horror leaving her sleeping baby on the seat next to me.  I was so nervous about a sudden drop in cabin pressure or that the baby might move and fall off the seat that I kept my hand close by to make a rescue if need be.  The mother returned, completely calm and in no rush.

I ride a lot of public buses in Buenos Aires and ever-present are crying babies and their mothers. I notice the mothers seem to carry very minimal if any baby paraphernalia – no folded-up stroller, diaper bag, toys, not even a pack of baby wipes. The babies are never being held in any sort of secure baby carrier either. Sometimes they look like they are about to pass out from heat exhaustion, their hair glued with sweat to their dangling heads while they sleep cramped on the laps of their mothers, which probably explains why they´re almost always crying. It’s interesting to compare how different our worlds and realities can be. An old boss of mine who had two kids once tried to justify owning an SUV, saying it was impossible to go on a trip with his kids and wife in anything smaller when you had to bring playpens, stroller, baby swings, etc. That seemed excessive to me then and even more so now that I´ve seen the things people live without around the world.

As I have mentioned before, fire alarms and carbon monoxide detectors don’t exist here. When I ask how anyone manages to escape if they are by chance sleeping or not aware of a fire, no one seems to have an answer. To complicate things further, you need your key handy to unlock the door to get out, no standard bolt locks here.

On the total other hand, I think about how over-the-top we can be about safety and cleanliness in the U.S. How paranoid people are. Everyone is antibacterializing their child from birth isntead of letting them play in the dirt and build up immunity. Today every child seems to have a peanut allergy. Funny how Argentina doesn’t seem to have that problem. It seems a trend now, especially in places like affluent neighborhoods of NYC, to send children to occupational therapists, private tutors and coaches, anything to help children excel more easily. This recent article from the NY Times about ocupational therapy for children put me over the edge. It seems as if more and more parents are looking to find something wrong with their completely normal kids instead of demanding more of them or of their teachers, or doing the hard work themselves. As schools and admissions become more competitive, the higher ranks seem to be more and more reserved only for the affluent who have the luxury of hiring the coaches to help their three-year-old hold a crayon right and the private SAT tutors.

When I travel to other parts of the world  I find it hard to make sense of the stark contrast between these two worlds. Babies holding their own on the front of motorbikes carrying a family of five, while back in the U.S. wealthy families are designing multi-million dollar homes that better accommodate their developing children.

Isn´t there a happy medium??

My favorite street in Buenos Aires

November 15^th was officially my one-year anniversary in Buenos Aires.  I wanted to write a special post that day but I couldn’t think of anything good to say.  It was one of those oh-my-god-time-has-totally-flown-by moments when I had to sit and think if I had anything noteworthy to write about one year later, sort of like the feeling you have on New Year’s day when you reflect back on your resolutions from the year before and if you accomplished any.

So what have I learned since I got here?

My dad was right when he said that if you can live in New York, you can live anywhere in the world.  And I’m so grateful for this ability.  Thus far in my almost 30 years I have lived in the U.S., Canada, Italy, Thailand, and now Argentina.  After more than twenty years living in Manhattan not that many things shock me anymore and I can adapt to most situations, and I love being in a new situation that challenges me as a person.

Working for a local company with local people has been an amazing experience, regardless of the frustrations of all that’s gotten lost in translation or the administrative headaches.  It alone has made this experience worthwhile.

I don’t belong working at a desk nor working for someone.  I had my doubts and for a while tried convincing myself that maybe I just wasn’t sitting at the right desk.  I thought with a new job, totally new environment in a new country I might be able to conform but I’m back to the same feeling of dissatisfaction.  How will I maintain myself then?  That’s still in a “dev” phase.

I can live in a hostel – and did for 3 months!

I can live with a whole lot less, but fashion and my personal appearance will always be important to me.

Thinking in a new language makes you more resourceful and creative with your own language.  For example, the other day I was trying to figure out how to tell a programmer that the fields a web form needed to be required but couldn’t think of the word in Spanish. “Obligatorio” I said, quickly thinking of an English word I wouldn’t normally use and Spanishfying it.

Not being a native Spanish speaker has certain advantages – for example a gross guy on the street tries to talk to me and I respond in English and pretend not to understand a word until he gives me a confused look and walks away.  Or more recently, I go to polo match and while trying to talk our way into the second match that we didn’t have tickets for I play a confused tourist who was certain her ticket was for both, the attendant smiling as he let’s us in to front row seats.

We have too many rules, but Argentina doesn’t have enough rules.  Surely there’s some sort of happy medium?

The level of accessibility to goods and services in the U.S. is unparalleled….anywhere else.

Being in another country makes me less self-conscious – it creates a feeling of greater anonymity and less reason to care about embarrassing myself.

I’ve retrained my buying habits – all of a sudden I have a very short mental list of things I “need” and I observe the way people here use things until they are very old from cars to shoes to electronics, they don’t just throw it all and buy new stuff like we do.

Life earning pesos is not easy.  How anyone here saves a dime from their paycheck is beside me but it’s definitely a good lesson on cutting back.

No matter how good my Spanish has gotten or how close to native I may think my accent is, speaking even just five words people know from my intonation (or something?) that I’m not from here, to my huge disappointment.  Was hoping I could finally fool someone!

My coworkers made the point that it seems only fair that Argentina give the same treatment to its outsiders.  As of December of last year, Argentina began charging U.S. citizens $140 USD to enter the country as part of a reciprocity treatment.  I have no problem with that.  My point in our conversation, however was that there is a relevant reason why the U.S. is so strict with foreign visitors given the level of people around the world who want to work in the U.S., legally or illegally, and earn U.S. dollars. Having lived in Thailand and now Argentina, I now fully understand the power of earning U.S. dollars. Argentina, I explained, doesn’t exactly have quite the same economic appeal, though makes it difficult enough for foreigners outside what is called “Mercosur” (Uruguay, Brazil, Paraguay and Bolivia, Chile, Colombia Ecuador, and Peru) to get a work visa.  What I said next, which I now feel was a bit ignorant of me, was that I didn’t know anyone in Argentina who if presented with a legitimate opportunity to live and work in the U.S. would turn it down.

Both my coworkers responded that they would turn the opportunity down without a second thought, each citing their own reasons from the health care system and the foreign policies of the government to the unfriendliness/closedness of the people, and one of them going so far to say that the U.S. would be at the very bottom of his list, with places like Holland or Scandinavia seeming much more appealing.

I felt quite upset and frustrated hearing this, even though I have had exposure to this kind of negative sentiment in many places I have visited around the world. Let’s be honest, many U.S. foreign policies are not in line with what every citizen would want, in fact in many cases they end up being the opposite. But that doesn’t mean that the entire country has bad intentions or that it’s not a good place to live or experience as an expat. Hearing my coworkers make generalizations about a country makes me more sensitive and aware of how I might speak about another country, especially one that I haven’t lived in before. Like my dad always says “keep an open mind.” It’s the same way I feel when people rant on about how obese we are in the U.S. and then mention how they have only visited Florida – and I am quick to educate them that Orlando is the fast-food capital of the country!

The conversation was cut short before we could really get into it but given the very limited job opportunity and earning potential the average person has in Argentina, no matter what the education level, I can’t see how an opportunity for something greater couldn’t be at least somewhat appealing  I’m no big U.S. patriot but I do believe in many of the systems and organizations in the U.S. and their efforts to keep the best interests of citizens in mind, especially in terms of keeping people safe and protecting their human rights. These are perhaps two major reasons people from other countries might want to live in the U.S. and ironically two liberties I think are missing living in Argentina.

The scene at Plaza de Mayo

Last Wednesday, a day that was supposed to be a relaxing do-nothing day since the entire city shut down for the 2010 National Census ended up being anything but that.   Néstor Kurchner, the husband of the current president and a former president himself during 2003-2007, passed away from a heart attack.  I woke up at noon, having overslept the census brigade who came by, and when I heard the news I didn’t quite know what to expect in terms of how big a deal it would be to the country.   It also seemed like such a coincidence, his death on a day the entire nation was at home with nothing better to do than watch TV all day.  After a few hours watching the news and seeing people hysterically crying, at times unable to talk, it was finally time to leave the house for a walk.  The whole city felt gloomy despite the sunny day it turned out to be.  By early evening, I found myself at the Plaza de Mayo in front of the Casa Rosada (the equivalent of the White House), unable to resist a visit to this historic plaza to witness Argentina mourn the loss of, what I was slowly coming to realize, a very important former leader.

The experience at the plaza was chill inducing.  Before we even could get close we saw hundreds of people in the streets with flowers, Argentine flags, hand-written signs heading in the same direction.  The mood was solemn and calm in what could have normally been a chaotic scene given the size and intensity of the crowds.  I saw groups of people walking the streets with different flags – some that read “Hijos,” “Movimiento Evita.” Each group represents what is known in Spanish as a “militante” or distinct political group, though is not how we would think of the word in that they are not necessarily violent.  It was so moving to see so many people passionate people out to show their support, to realize how different politics are in Latin American countries.  It made me wonder how a similarly respected former president back home might be mourned.

The most amazing moment of the night was when the white bonnets appeared, “las madres de la Plaza de Mayo,” and everyone erupted into applause.  They are the mothers and grandmothers whose children were kidnapped and killed during Argentina’s military dictatorship who meet in front of the Casa Rosada every Thursday to protest the government’s failure to unite them with their missing children.   The late Kirchner put forth efforts to find the missing and for that he gained the respect of this important political rights group.

The signs I saw plastered all over the city the next morning

What surprised me most was the level of universal respect it seems so many Argentines have for Néstor Kirchner. Also that in a place where there is so much cynicism for the government and so much corruption and complete failure of the government to serve its people, that a well respected president exists.  The public outpouring I saw makes me think that perhaps the stereotype that Latins are a passionate people is often true.  Kirchner oversaw Argentina’s recovery from the 2001-2002 economic crisis and is credited for having fought against poverty and unemployment.    The very next day on my way to work I saw that all the billboards in the street had been plastered by signs that read “fuerza Cristina” with a picture of the president with her late husband.  Many people believe that Cristina has been heavily influenced by her husband, so it will be interesting to see how things move forward.

I’m at the Continental gate in Ezeiza airport, confident I am at the right gate without double-checking given the five people I see typing furiously away on their iPads. I begin arguing in Spanish at length with the gate attendant. After forcing everyone through yet another bag check before boarding the plane, they find three large tubs of dulce de leche in my bag and tell me it’s considered a gel. I am livid since conveniently there is no hope of putting any of it in my checked bag. Every time I travel I seem to become increasingly frustrated by the inconsistencies of various American air transport companies, and this is the last straw.

A friend of mine has done me a favor and organized a car to pick me up through her company’s account and has put the car in the name of an employee. A woman is standing to greet me when I step off the plane and as we wait for my bags to arrive she begins asking me about my flight…in Spanish. I am jet-legged and half asleep so at first it doesn’t occur to me how weird it is to be back in the U.S. and speaking Spanish again. Then I realize the name of the employee my friend has used is Latin and my driver based on her accent is obviously from either PR or DR. I am still trying to figure it out as the luggage carousel begins to move, thinking how unlikely it was for her to think I was from either of those places given how ghostly-white skin and my Porteña accent. Once in the car she explains that her company had told her that I was from Argentina and didn’t speak much English, but she tells me she suspects I do!  I begin to laugh.

My first day back after 10 months in Buenos Aires, I never have felt so short walking the streets in Manhattan.  At first I can’t figure out if it is just that I have forgotten how tall people are in North America and how much more I blend in being almost 5’8, or if something is actually different.  A few days later it occurs to me that I have arrived just in time for fashion week and that this year for the first time it is taking place only a few blocks from my parents Columbus Circle apartment.  I hope I won’t feel so  midget-like for long.

One of the things that most surprises me about being home is how used to speaking Spanish I have somehow become. If I am not concentrating or a bit tired as is the case for the first few days, I find myself starting to say hello, goodbye or thank you to someone in Spanish. Worse, I am completely unconscious that I am tacking on a Spanish word here and there. During the first few days my parents interrupt me several times because I speak part of a sentence in Spanish without even realizing. The day after I arrive I’m on the train ride to DC for my friend Rita’s wedding and a man sitting next to me offers me a Twizzler to which I respond in a loud voice over my blaring ipod “no gracias.” After a pang of embarrassment, a part of me is actually quite excited by this. It means that speaking Spanish has actually become totally unconscious and natural to me, that I am not translating things from English first in my head anymore.

I’ve always known how useful Spanish is in a place like Manhattan, but I never realized just how much until now. I count more than a dozen times that I am consciously aware and comprehending of the Spanish being spoken around me. I even find myself in a Forever 21 store where my Spanish skills came into play. There is a huge line at the cash register when the cashier asks the line of customers if anyone speaks Spanish. Everyone turns to look behind them and I find myself volunteering and at the register helping out the Spanish-speaking tourists so that everyone can be on their way. It feels totally great to be speaking Spanish again.

Home for only a few days I start to feel like I never left. I am loving seeing different groups of friends every night and in no time back to my routine of hopping the subway to different neighborhoods, walking around for hours while I take in all that has changed, grabbing coffee at my favorite bar in Soho, Aroma, eating lunch at City Bakery with my dad, and making dinner and drinks plans each night.

One of the things I have missed so much but not forgotten is the energy of New York that is unlike anywhere else in the world.  I revel in the fact that in a matter of months I have become totally out of the loop on the hippest restaurants and bars. One night at a birthday dinner at a new hotspot, Abe and Arthur’s, I realize it is just that energy that I have been homesick for in Buenos Aires. We enter the swanky meatpacking restaurant and I notice a crowd of seven girls immaculately dressed, each one in a different pair of Louboutin-height heels and I love it. It occurs to me I have seriously been missing the fashion competition that is the streets of NY.  In Buenos Aires I often feel unmotivated to dress up, spend time organizing outfits, or wear my highest heels, something I personally enjoy a lot given my love of fashion. In New York I never feel overdone and am right at home teetering in my tallest heels and my most fashion forward ensembles. Walking down Fifth Avenue one afternoon I am reminded of the constant challenge it is to be fashionable in a place like New York, and despite the needing lots of disposable income part, I really miss it.

The thing I cannot express just how much I miss is, of course, the food.  I find myself in just the first week alone eating enchiladas, the juiciest burgers I have tasted in months, spicy Thai food, soup dumplings, savory plates of salads from Whole Foods and City Bakery, and Pinkberry frozen yogurt at least once a day.  The other big thing?  City-that-never-sleeps store hours.  I never once wonder if something is open, I just go and it is.  I am thrilled there is no day of shopping rest on Sundays and there are people eating, drinking, and exploring things at all hours.  I

There is something to be said about being away from something that you love.  I am a strong believer in the saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder and I see the city in a new light that is totally refreshing.  I buy a new point and shoot camera one day and became a tourist in my own city snapping pictures of everything that once used to feel so ordinary.

I appreciate things I never had before, the conveniences, how easy life is, the street scenes I had previously rushed past in a hurry. When I leave the house I don’t need to worry if I have any cash in my wallet – everywhere, magazine stands and taxi cabs included, takes credit cards in NY.  I think how funny it is while in a drugstore buying something and my change is four cents and the cashier runs over to another register to give me my exact change. That would never happen in Buenos Aires, there wouldn’t be any change I think to myself.  I love the fact that almost every purchase I make in a store is returnable, including a necklace I buy, wear for a week, and then somehow unravels a bit and I am given a brand new one, no questions asked when I take it back.

I start to think about what an amazing place New York City is for people from other countries.  No one pays any particular attention to people in the subway speaking another language or in English with an accent from somewhere else, it’s part of the day-to-day experience in New York.

Another thing I have missed is eating dinner at 7:30.  Despite all the arguments with my family about trying to wait until a bit later to eat dinner, I do enjoy having the rest of my night to do things, unlike in Buenos Aires where I am sometimes eating a steak dinner at 1am.

The things I don’t miss?  Walking the streets as if I am in a constant rush when I am in fact on vacation!  Everyone around me on the streets makes me feel like I need to walk like I am late for something.  And one of the first things I notice after stepping off the plane back in Buenos Aires is the calm I feel walking around my neighborhood.  There isn’t the same tension in my shoulders or panic in my step.

I have had many periods of genuine happiness living in Buenos Aires, and after reading this article I can’t help but think that some of the forced pairing down of “things” as a result of my move here has been part of the reason.   Long ago, when I started my clothing addiction my mom warned me that the upkeep of all these clothes was going to become exhausting.  Buying higher quality and fewer nicer items would keep me looking good but with less effort, she cautioned.  To this day, I don’t think I have fully taken her advice but moving my life to Buenos Aires has taught me a lot about living with less.

In New York I lived in a really tiny studio apartment and was shocked to learn just how much stuff I had managed to acquire in that small space when I was forced to package everything I owned in a box to put into storage.  But I found myself eager to pare down to the bare essentials.  It was an emotionally and physically exhausting process to go through and get rid of so much stuff, and I found myself crying often.  I learned from that to try to not make “things” so important to me anymore and that getting rid of that big weight would allow me the freedom to make life changes more easily, and  to enjoy more of the travels and new life that awaited me in Buenos Aires.  I wondered often if I had somehow allowed my possessions to define me and realized my experience moving to a new country and how that would shape me would far outweigh any loss I felt getting rid of things.  When I came home day after day to piles of stuff I didn’t know what to do with, I told myself I would never accumulate that much again.

In my Buenos Aires apartment I have tried to keep that experience in foresight. I have enough dishes for no more than six, two pots, one pan, and about half the clothes, shoes, and accessories that I once had.  I have almost zero decorative items other than the two black and white paintings we bought for close to nothing and a vase for fresh flowers.   I continue to maintain a healthy array of beauty and bath products, as always, but nothing extreme and I am learning to wait to buy new ones until I use some of them up.  While I miss many of the decorative items that once filled my Manhattan apartment to make it feel more like home, I find it refreshing to live with just the basics and I feel like it might have changed my purchasing habits for good.  I love the liberating feeling that if one day we decide to move to another apartment, as we did almost four months ago, that it’s a matter of me packing up two suitcases and some odds and ends in some shopping bags and hopping in a cab.

The most interesting part of the article discusses a study that spending money for an experience – for example language classes, wine tasting, concert tickets – and creates longer-lasting satisfaction than spending money on regular material things.   “It’s better to go on a vacation than buy a new couch” is the main idea of the research of two psychologists, Leaf Van Boven and Thomas Gilovich.  I couldn’t agree more with this point or be more excited that it’s been proven true.  I think about my apartment here in Buenos Aires and how despite it being a bit more expensive than I had hoped, the huge rooftop pool and barbecue make it worthwhile for all the fun moments I will share with friends once summer comes.  I also think about my plan to book a few months of travel at the end of my time in Argentina, no matter what my money situation, has now been justified.

I can’t help but think back to the days when I made a six-figure salary and all the freedoms and luxuries that money brought me.  But I don’t remember those purchases making me any happier and my higher standard of living made me feel trapped in my cubicle.  At times my spending habits were more an outlet to de-stress or disguise my frustration at having worked too many hours that week.  When I quit that job and started working at National Geographic, for less than half my previous salary, I found that somehow I still had enough money and also the time to take the Spanish and photography classes I had been interested in and that brought a whole level of happiness and creativity to my life outside of work.

Of course I would have to agree with a part of the article that mentions the fashion lovers who think that clothes are a “means of self-expression” and can never be something utilitarian.  I don’t think I will ever abandon my love of clothes or obsession with fashion and the way a great outfit makes me feel, but I know through all these experiences living abroad and seeing how others live, I’ve learned to live with a lot less.

I move forward, gripping the handrail so tight that my knuckles turn white and my fingers go numb.  At times I am forced to grip the handrail with both hands and there are many moments when we go so fast around a bend that I genuinely feel as if we might flip over.  If I thought the buses moved fast in Brazil I was kidding myself.  I stare in amazement at the people around me who seem not to budge an inch though they hold onto nothing.  As locals they are masters of this skill, I think to myself.   We reach the next stop and I watch as an old man about to board the bus hoists his frail wife in catapult-style up the steps.  The awful beeping noise of the air assist and sixty seconds you curse for slowing your journey down on a New York City bus doesn’t exist here, but somehow the old people just deal.  I grow frustrated and nervous when I notice none of the seated young boys offer to give up their seats to the old couple.

Minutes later I take my iPod earphones out and realize reggaetone is blaring from the radio. I start to feel a bit like I’m in a discotheque as the bright blue lights that surround the front windshield begin to flash.   I don’t understand why everyone seems to know ahead of time what their fare is, why there isn’t a standard one.  Some mutter “uno deis” others “uno veinte” and others “uno veinti-cinco” as they board and drop their coveted coins into an electronic machine that then dispenses small tickets.   I always say the same thing no matter where I’m going.  I guess the one good thing is that either way it only costs you about a quarter to put your life at risk.

I see a boy press a button on the pole at the back door, the only button that exists on the whole bus to notify your stop and yet I hear no sound and see no sign light up.  I wonder how he even knows he has requested his stop but also start to worry how I will make it in time to push the button for my stop without colliding with anyone as we continue moving at break-neck speed.  When we pull into his stop, making no point to slow down even the slightest bit, the doors unexpectedly fly open and I watch in horror as the boy lowers himself down the steps and off the bus while we are still moving.   At the next stop I watch as a group of people exit into blaring traffic, the bus driver making no effort to pull over into the actual stop.  I think about how ridiculous that scene would be in New York, and how the passengers would yell and scream about it.  But everyone here just goes on their way.

As we continue along the route I start to notice out of the corner of my eye some motion among the passengers.  I look up and realize that people are crossing themselves.   I’ve never really understood it but in Argentina when you pass a church, not just a cemetery, you cross yourself – really everyone does and the most common place to see this is on a bus.

When my parents came to visit they kept asking what all the long lines in the streets were about.  The strangest thing about riding the bus here is that while everything else Argentine has no organization, boarding the bus does and is taken very seriously.  I once told to my coworker that I didn’t understand the point of the lines, how it just creates added confusion because you never knew who was waiting for what bus.  She found this puzzling and wondered how people in New York knew in what order to board the bus, something I had never considered.

The art of flagging a bus in Buenos Aires (since the buses don’t automatically stop at each stop) is a whole other beast and in my opinion takes lots of practice.  Try flagging a bus plowing along like it’s in a drag race with only tiny sign that you have just seconds to read and you’ll see my point.  I have found myself more times than I want to admit standing on a corner watching as the fourth bus that I meant to flag down drive right past me.

At the end of the day, I actually find myself laughing a lot about this whole experience because it’s such a riot and it’s such a part of living in Buenos Aires.  I read somewhere that there are more than 400 different bus lines in Buenos Aires, all independently owned (hence the blue flashing lights on some), and at the beginning I was too scared and confused to even think about riding one.  They actual have this novel-sized book called the “Guia T” just to show the bus routes.  I’m happy to say that I’ve finally earned my resident’s right of passage!

The guys working at the fiamberia at my corner, which sells cold cuts, cheeses (and the Argentine version of bacon which I recently discovered), now shout “New York, New York” when I come in.   Caddie corner is the fruit and vegetable stand I discovered has THE best produce in the neighborhood. The guy who always helps me is from Peru and makes sure to select the best fruit and tells me what’s good that week.   I know which kiosk will actually give me prized “monedas” to ride the bus when I am desperate, and which always carries the cell phone calling card I need, and another that sells a carton of my favorite fresh squeezed orange juice for only 7 pesos.

I love the carniceria in our neighborhood because of the sweet old man who has worked there for 30 years who always laughs at my lack of red meat savyness. It’s open until 8:30, has the freshest meats, though I also know that when I go alone he often “aprovecha” and sells me a different cut of meat that is twice what I expected to pay.  There’s a fruit and vegetable stand that’s a part of it that sells hard-to-find items (in Argentina) such as ginger and cilantro.  I discovered my favorite place to eat a nice dinner in the area, a place called T-Bone, and after a twice-per-week habit I couldn’t quit the entire wait staff now knows me and gives me free drinks whenever I come in. When we first moved in, I found myself at the hardware and kitchenwares store every week to fill in the odds and ends that were missing in the kitchen.  There is even an American-style gym three blocks away and a health food store that sells peanut butter.

Last week I passed through the other neighborhood I had lived in (Palermo – Pacifico), and despite it being only six blocks from where I live now, I had gotten to know all of it’s distinct best kept secrets.  I thought about how close I used to live to Nucha, my favorite café for breakfast or afternoon snacks.  The pollo con mostaza dish I had discovered at this one awful orange-painted restaurant, the “My Place” video club which was right next door and always had the newest releases, and the young guys that worked there who knew me always let me bring back the movies late and didn’t charge me.   I knew that the “Chino a la vuelta” (as Argentines lacking a bit of PC-ness call the large chain of Chinese grocery stores around every corner here) was THE only store I could buy food at until 10pm on a Sunday.   I had discovered the fastest way to walk to one of my favorite neighborhoods, Las Cañitas through a sort of hidden underpass and that heading towards Avenida LIbertador was a way to feel like I had stepped out of Buenos Aires.

So then what is so different about the Buenos Aires barrio vs. the New York one? In Buneos Aires there is no best dry cleaner to search for (porteños don’t really dry clean much), no two-on-every-block manicure shops, no Thai, Mexican, and sushi delivery restaurants in every neighborhood, no Sunday brunch spots to figure out, or 24-hour Duane Reedes.  There’s not even a mailbox to search for!  But by far the best part is that you really get to know the people who work in these neighborhood shops and it becomes a big part of the whole experience. The same old man is working the carniceria with his wife every time I go and I love that dependability, that smallness I feel in my barrio.  He waves hello whenever I pass by and once “lent” us a bag of coal for our asado when we had forgotten to buy one.

I went to Uruguay (yet again) last weekend.  It wasn’t a trip for pleasure, one more of necessity due to my still pending visa situation. I decided since I couldn’t convince anyone else to go with me that I’d make it a quick trip and not waste my day there. Just go drink what would end up being the most expensive cup of coffee of my life (the trip cost me about $80US) and come right back.  I booked the ticket on Buquebus, a more reputable boat company than the one I had traveled with before, hoping that I might avoid some of the trauma I had experienced the last time I went.  It had been a ride filled with men, women, and children, all either vomiting or holding cotton pads of alcohol to their noses to calm nausea as we passed through some rough waters, followed by us hitting something in the water at full force and half of the boat being asked to move to the other side to avoid us from sinking I presumed. no formal announcement was made that we were in danger and people took it upon themselves to put on their life vests, but when we arrived two hours late to a crew of about 10 people helping us all off the boat I knew something had happened.

Saturday morning at 12:30 we left the dock at Puerto Madero right on time, and I sat back and dozed off a bit to some relaxing music playing on my iPod.  About 20 minutes later I started hearing some weird tapping noises coming from the seat in front of me so I took my earphones out to see what it was.  It sounded as if the man in front of me was pounding on his chest in a constant rhythm.  I couldn’t see much since there was an empty seat next to him but I didn’t really know what to think.  I put my earphones back in.  Then I saw him raises a fist in the air above his head a few times and shake it around and started to think that he must be listening to the Uruguay soccer game that had started just when we left and gotten excited about a goal.  But I was forced to take my earphones off yet again when he began breathing very heavily, so much so that I couldn’t hear my own music over him.  A couple in the seats next to me peered over at him and I heard the man ask his wife if she thought he should go over to make sure he was okay.  Then I heard him burp loudly, and I began to think maybe this was a whole routine he did to try to avoid throwing up.  Whatever it was it was strange.  I couldn’t figure out what was going on and part of me was scared to know.  Before I could wonder anymore about it, he abruptly got up from his seat and walked to the food vendor area. I noticed that he was a man of about 50, with a long beard, and he wasn’t wearing his shoes, just socks.  He looked clean and put together and the fact that a ticket on the boat cost almost US $100 made me think there was no way he could be homeless. Suddenly I heard a really loud noise and I saw him pacing back and forth.

The next thing I knew he walked into the passenger area, facing all of what was probably about 75 people, closed his eyes and let out the loudest scream I have ever heard from a grown man.  He did it several times, bringing his hands up and down each time as he did.  The whole boat went silent and no one moved.  He began pacing along the side row of passengers, thankfully a distance away from where I was and screaming the same way over and over again.  At one point I saw him get close to a woman, stare at her and scream.  No one seemed to know what to do and finally a group of five men came running out with walkie-talkies.  One of them approached the man just as he was turning around to make his way back (screaming along the way) to where he started.  His eyes were welling up and as the security guard went to put his hand on his shoulder he moved away from him and wouldn’t let him touch him and started screaming in his face.

The security guards let him go at it again and I began to feel like I was in a nightmare that I wanted to wake up from. I hurriedly stashed all my things in my bag and started examining where I could hide nearby if he started to pull something really crazy. I had seen small children board the boat and wondered how scared they must be.  The screaming and pacing continued for about 15 minutes and it felt like an eternity.  The woman next to me pointed over to the seat in front of me and made a comment that the security guards should take his stuff before he came over and took out his gun.  I had been sort of thinking the same thing, you just never know.  Finally the screaming stopped and it seemed they had sequestered the man somewhere in the boat for the time being.  I found out later there’s a jail on the boat so it must have been there.  Security came to get his stuff and I began to relax, though part of me was still fearful there was a hidden bomb in his things.

I arrived in Colonia just in time to witness the crazy celebration taking place after their big win in the world cup game against Ghana that morning.  During my walk from the station I had been pondering why these crazy boat experiences seemed always to happen to me and while on my way to Uruguay, but I was immediately put in a good mood once I saw the celebration.  The main street had been over-taken by a processional of cars, honking their way through the crowds while streaming their Uruguayan flags. I couldn’t help but feel excited and happy for them too.  A group of young guys played drums on the back of a truck and people drank from big bottles of beer.  The video above gives an idea of what it was like, don’t forget the sound for the full effect.

Living in Buenos Aires I often get the feeling I moved to a place where one doesn’t encounter very many crazy people, unlike NYC where it’s a daily occurence.  But after my recent trip to Uruguay I began to have some doubts.

Manantiales

I didn´t need to see any signs to know we had arrived.  I peered out my window and saw neat rows of tall gleaming apartment buildings that almost didn’t look real.   I was immediately reminded of Miami, though there was an air about things that also reminded me of Europe.  Everything was white, modern, pristine, and expensive looking.  It felt like a world away from the  decaying sidewalks and congestion I had just left in Buenos Aires.   The air was fresh, the grass green, and the ocean (not chocolate-colored river) omnipresent.  I was excited for a long weekend out of the city and after a six-hour voyage between cabs, boats, and buses, I had finally arrived in what is known as the Hampton’s of South America – Punta del Este, Uruguay.

It was the last weekend people went to their weekend houses here, the equivalent of labor day weekend back home.  My friend Veronica´s family has a beautiful house in a town called Manantiales about 15 minutes from La Punta where all the main action is and where it seems most tourists end up.  I of course loved the location for that very reason.  It seemed like the regular Punta-goer place – to be removed from the pretentious scene in the main part of town but be somewhere equally if not more beautiful, with the same level of boutiques and restaurants, and still a stepping stone away from the beach.  Scanning the boutiques we passed I was momentarily transplanted to a block on Madison Avenue, each store window immaculate and displaying jaw-droppingly stunning items.  Nothing was low-key in terms of elegance or price.  Get your black Amex out ahora mismo.

I gazed in awe at the houses we passed along the main road.   Some reminded me of giant glass rubix cubes and were large enough to be decent-sized modern art museums. They had so many large glass windows I could see all the way into the bed of the master bedroom!  When I hopped into my friend’s Jeep I couldn’t have been more excited when they told me they had just visited the dock to pick up fresh fish for lunch.  It had literally been months since I had even seen fish let alone eaten it, Argentina’s beef having ruled my diet over the past six months.  Driving fast over the roller coaster-like Maldonado bridge, my stomach dropped sharply and I started to laugh when I found out it was a trick played on newcomers to drive extra fast over the bridge to get its full effect. It’s an architectural landmark Punta is known for, aside from certainly an experience.

While walking around the beautiful complex where Veronica’s family’s house is I learned that even Mauricio Macri, the mayor of Buenos Aires, had a house right next door. The complex is very aesthetically pleasing in that all of the houses have been designed by the same architect and combine soothing earth toned materials like slate, and rich woods, with lots of white accents and large windows.  Veronica’s family’s house has been decorated by someone who has obviously studied more than just a few interior design magazines and I loved studying each room. The living and dining areas were my favorite, very tastefully decorated with large, crisp, white sofas, an enormous long white dining table all contrasted by brightly colored local artwork and paintings from both Uruguay and Argentina. When I asked her stepmother about where she bought the beautiful sculptural-like wicker chairs in the living room she told me about her search for a piece of furniture for that particular spot that wouldn’t block the amazing view and light that streamed in from the row of large windows.  It seemed to me she had found the perfect solution.

After a delicious meal of grilled fish and salads (I had forgotten what it was to eat that healthy living in Argentina), we headed for the beach.  The beaches have fine soft sand and clean water, which explains why so many Argentines seem to prefer Punta for beach vacations over other spots along the eastern coast of Argentina.  It was not a two-minute walk to get there and we were immediately greeted with hugs and kisses by some other families from the complex, breaking out their best English skills to ask me about living in Argentina even though I spoke in Spanish to them.   I wasn’t at all surprised  by how these moms of two and sometimes three or four children were more petite and more thin than Sarah Jessica Parker (a feat I didn’t think possible, by anyone).  Every mom was more bronzed and younger looking than the next and I didn’t need to look twice to know their sunglasses, bathing suits, bags, watches, and even flip-flops were of any number of European or American top designers.  After all – this was Punta del Este, the same place The Lonely Planet comments ” tan it, wax it, buff it at the gym, then plunk it on the beach.”  The description seemed apt.

The best dozena de medialunas I will ever eat

Later that afternoon we decided to hit up Medialunas Calentitas, a well-known cafe in La Barra that has a permanent line running out into the street.  I normally don´t eat medialunas in Buenos Aires but was told more than once that these were a must.  Half a dozen medialunas later, I had more than thoroughly sampled them and could understand the craze, the buttery goodness drizzled over them in a hurry could have become a minor addiction for me had we been there any longer.  I woke up the next  day and the one after that salivating for more.

Part of me was disappointed not to have seen the craziness that is Punta del Este in December and January when all the celebrities and wealthy families from Argentina, Brazil, and Europe come to vacation there.  But in other ways I was glad, the beaches never seeming remotely crowded despite great weather which made our time there all the more calm and relaxing.  I stopped in a mini mart one day and Veronica explained how in December it’s hard to even move in the store and impossible to find parking, and as we passed the famous Bikini beach one afternoon she commented how normally there is not a single open space of sand to claim and paparazzi will just appear out of nowhere in the sand to chase down celebrities.  The “boliches” (clubs) and bars, normally raging with underage patrons until well after the sun comes up were empty if not already closed down for the season.  An amazing day spent lounging on Jose Ignacio beach with Veronica’s whole family was enough for me to think that I was glad to have the tranquility, at least for that week.  But by next December I will probably be itching for another visit.