Yes, I am in a small town, the sort of place where everybody knows everybody, and people tend to grow up here and spend their lives here. I don't think this happens as often in the States, and it makes me wonder, why are things still so geographically consistent here?
But anyways, this fact does something to explain people's reaction to me. In Buenos Aires, I'm just another gringo, just another extranjero, and am far from extraordinary. But here, in Monte Maiz, a little farming town in the heartland of the country, I am exotic, the first of my kind, a phenomenon (which, ironically and appropriately, means 'freak' in Spanish; the word applies to me in both languages).
The result is that people are constantly asking me to come to asados, or visit their homes, or come to the disco with them. Alternatively, they will not speak to me at all, almost as if they are afraid, but more likely they are at a loss of what to say to someone who may not even be able to understand them. Though, I would beg to differ, I cannot pick and choose when I must use Spanish.
But I don't think that explains it entirely, the small-town thing. I think a great deal of it is the culture here. In the States, while we would be just as interested, we would express it rather differently. The biggest difference, I think, is the amount of space which we accord to such outsiders. In the States, we are cautious, tenative; but accept our invitation to dinner, and we will interrogate you endlessly, no matter what language barrier.
Here, though, the invitation/rsvp interaction format is not necessary, but once I ask "mas despacio?" ("more slowly?"), suddenly the dialogue will shut down.
I went to Buenos Aires this past weekend and went to - guess what - THE Star Wars Exhibition. Original props and costumes? Yes. Concept art from the original films? Keep going. Full vehicles used in filming? Man, that was about the sweetest thing I've done in a while, all for about ten dollars.
That's another thing, I'm constantly thinking about the cost of things in terms of the exchange rate here, which definitely works in my favor. Food and drink here is phenomenally cheap: two slices of pizza and a coke is about three dollars, a liter of beer is about two dollars for nicer brands, etc., etc. It's like the whole country is a discount store. But it also makes me wonder about the nature of money and how its value is determined. Hm.
Showing posts with label buenos aires. Show all posts
Showing posts with label buenos aires. Show all posts
Monday, August 24, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Into the Interior; Unexpected Lunch
Leaving Buenos Aires, Maria and I take a cab to El Retondito (think that's what it's called), the central bus station of the city. I am surprised that it is essentially like a little airport: people mill about the linear station, which is lined with shops selling newspapers, books, souveniers, and hygeine items. There are even 'gates' for the various buses, and there are screens detailing arrivals and departures.
Maria and I exchange our frustration with the security (whichs seems arbitrary) and goodbyes, and I get on my bus, a double-decker deal that reminded me a lot of the charter buses we used in marching band. Except there was free coffee and soda, and a wonderful little movie about a girl who was either Spanish or French, I couldn't tell which. Nonwithstanding, it blows Greyhound out of the water, considering that it can makes all its stops on time, too.
After winding through the city one last time, the bus made it to the highway. Here, the city began to melt away as we pushed down the road away from the huge mess. The city slowly lost its tenacity and then could only manage suburban towns and eventually, nothing.
El campo. Spanish for 'field,' but the word refers to both the individual fields of individuals and the geographical feature at large. By now, the sun has finished setting, it is night, and the light of the city is behind us. The horizon is empty, the terrain invisible, and the moon sits in a new set of constellations, waxing at an angle that is unusual to me. Occasionally, the glimmer of a farming village will peek over the horizon, "Hello, here is where we people are, the ones who work these fields." I mull over it all with a sandwich and coffee, compliments of the Montica bus line.
Finally we are in the Cordoba province, and we make our first stops. A woman takes the time to talk to me, as she can tell I am foreign: Where are you from? The United States. Where are you going? What? Where are you going? Oh, uh, Monte Maiz ("MON-tay My-EES," but still said too heavily). Sorry, I can't speak very well yet.
We talk the typical talk of the native and alien, which involves me answering the following questions: Where are you from? What part of the country? What are you doing here? When did you get here? How long will you be here? Do you like it here? I fire back with a few of my own: Where do you live? How old is your son (who was with her)? How many stops until Monte Maiz?
That was my first real, unfiltered conversation with a native, no assistance. As such, information is given and received slowly, uncertainly, me never being sure what exactly was said, and they never being sure if I fully understand. But, you get used to it.
When we got back on the bus, it was only a couple of hours to Monte Maiz.
Maria and I exchange our frustration with the security (whichs seems arbitrary) and goodbyes, and I get on my bus, a double-decker deal that reminded me a lot of the charter buses we used in marching band. Except there was free coffee and soda, and a wonderful little movie about a girl who was either Spanish or French, I couldn't tell which. Nonwithstanding, it blows Greyhound out of the water, considering that it can makes all its stops on time, too.
After winding through the city one last time, the bus made it to the highway. Here, the city began to melt away as we pushed down the road away from the huge mess. The city slowly lost its tenacity and then could only manage suburban towns and eventually, nothing.
El campo. Spanish for 'field,' but the word refers to both the individual fields of individuals and the geographical feature at large. By now, the sun has finished setting, it is night, and the light of the city is behind us. The horizon is empty, the terrain invisible, and the moon sits in a new set of constellations, waxing at an angle that is unusual to me. Occasionally, the glimmer of a farming village will peek over the horizon, "Hello, here is where we people are, the ones who work these fields." I mull over it all with a sandwich and coffee, compliments of the Montica bus line.
Finally we are in the Cordoba province, and we make our first stops. A woman takes the time to talk to me, as she can tell I am foreign: Where are you from? The United States. Where are you going? What? Where are you going? Oh, uh, Monte Maiz ("MON-tay My-EES," but still said too heavily). Sorry, I can't speak very well yet.
We talk the typical talk of the native and alien, which involves me answering the following questions: Where are you from? What part of the country? What are you doing here? When did you get here? How long will you be here? Do you like it here? I fire back with a few of my own: Where do you live? How old is your son (who was with her)? How many stops until Monte Maiz?
That was my first real, unfiltered conversation with a native, no assistance. As such, information is given and received slowly, uncertainly, me never being sure what exactly was said, and they never being sure if I fully understand. But, you get used to it.
When we got back on the bus, it was only a couple of hours to Monte Maiz.
Jardín Botánico Carlos Thays de la Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires
Maria and I visited the Botanical garden in Buenos Aires. This was after I figured out that I had a timer on my camera.
The state gardening and botany school; what a design for a campus.
A lot of stray cats lived in the park, though I'd bet on some regular feeders.
The same cat. He followed us around and was generally amiable.
Maria, in tree that reminds me of Rafiki's house in The Lion King.
No garden is complete without grimly interpretable statues.
Less forboding, but still just as likely to awaken memories of failure.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Photos of Buenos Aires #1
Some graffiti found in an alley.
Look closely at the top of the building, as Maria told me: "That is a house built by a crazy architect who wanted his home on the highest point in Buenos Aires." This view is from the plaza in July 9th Avenue (Argentina's Independence Day).
Giant neon coke advertisement on July 9th Avenue.
More photos will come once I purchase a memory card for my camera and master its cheap-ness.
This country is showing me the variety of material things.
Buenos Aires is huge. Once I left the airport, with the help of Maria, so gracious, we took a bus deep into the city. The journey down the highway was a good introduction: elevated over the city, we passed, one after another, huge apartment buildings ("monoblocks"), festooned with signs and clothes and air conditioning units. They tower twenty-five stories over everything else, and everything else is infinite in its shapes (architecture we would never dare to use in America) and density.
This city is filled with so many nooks and crannies, all of which tease and pull at my imagination. Every building here looks old, aged, and used as efficiently as possible. A building is never too old, no matter how many decades and renovations have passed, never too ugly, no matter how much the plaster has crumbled and the graffiti has accumulated. All those corners and little spaces, who knows what dust and debris and histories they hold?
Street level is no different, apart from the view. Now every building you pass is home to the little spaces: a basement bar beneath the hostel, a five by eight bedroom on the roof, tiny shops packed beneath apartment buildings, ten feet wide, with a specificity of wares that America has forgotten.
Best of all, balconies are everywhere, to my pleasure. Here, everyone is entitled to look out over the whole mess that no one has ever had the time to clean up, even me, in my hostel.
Buenos Aires is huge. Once I left the airport, with the help of Maria, so gracious, we took a bus deep into the city. The journey down the highway was a good introduction: elevated over the city, we passed, one after another, huge apartment buildings ("monoblocks"), festooned with signs and clothes and air conditioning units. They tower twenty-five stories over everything else, and everything else is infinite in its shapes (architecture we would never dare to use in America) and density.
This city is filled with so many nooks and crannies, all of which tease and pull at my imagination. Every building here looks old, aged, and used as efficiently as possible. A building is never too old, no matter how many decades and renovations have passed, never too ugly, no matter how much the plaster has crumbled and the graffiti has accumulated. All those corners and little spaces, who knows what dust and debris and histories they hold?
Street level is no different, apart from the view. Now every building you pass is home to the little spaces: a basement bar beneath the hostel, a five by eight bedroom on the roof, tiny shops packed beneath apartment buildings, ten feet wide, with a specificity of wares that America has forgotten.
Best of all, balconies are everywhere, to my pleasure. Here, everyone is entitled to look out over the whole mess that no one has ever had the time to clean up, even me, in my hostel.
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