It's about time: I haven't talked about the World Cup yet. Since my last two posts were decidedly depressing, I think its about time to talk about what its like to be in Argentina during the World Cup. Let me clarify: I am currently in Argentina during the Mundial and Argentina has never lost a game! Many of my friends and family have made reference to the World Cup lately, mostly via facebook, but as Argentina has continued to advance over the past few weeks, the situation here has rapidly turned newsworthy. So, for all you bored Americans back home: what's the atmosphere like here?
First things first: Mundial is the most important thing around. When Argentina plays, watching the game trumps all, including but not limited to: work, school, mealtimes, visits to relatives in hospital, and traffic laws. Being from the USA, a country at best only mildly intrigued by the epic spectacle of Mundial, I was surprised when my lessons with students were rescheduled for the games. And I do not mean lessons that were scheduled during gametime; I am talking about lessons scheduled fully five hours before gametime. Yep, a 9am lesson was rescheduled due to the 1pm game. This is because everyone must "really concentrate in the morning because they won't get any work done for the rest of the day," as one of my students explained to me. Here, English lessons are rendered completely superfluous when compared to a soccer game. And many, many other things share the same fate. Last week, I saw a beggar shoo away a good Samaritan trying to give him money because the hapless fellow was blocking his view of the game through a cafe window. Now that's commitment. That is loyalty at its finest. That is love.
The second striking thing about Mundial in Argentina is the noise. As I told my friend Lauren today: I think every horn in Argentina is honking. There are all kinds of noisemakers here, but the loudest of all is undoubtedly the teenage boys. These little hooligans, many armed with snare drums, positively overtake the central plazas and Calle Sarimiento, the pedestrian shopping district in Mendoza on game days. Once gathered in a massive, undulating crowd of dark mullets and rat tails (soooo undeservedly popular here), the boys proceed to climb trees, light posts, and newsstands where they flail recklessly and weave huge Argentina flags precariously through the power lines. Another popular pastime before, during, and after the game is to light off industrial flares... in the middle of the crowd. I can only thank some higher power that I still have hair on the left side of my head after one be-mulleted teenager lit off a flare that whistled past just inches from ear before sending sparks raining down over the crowd. I still have my hair, but my hearing may never recover from Mundial.
The third and most incredible thing about Mundial in Argentina, however, is the most striking: I have never been so excited for a soccer game! The intensity of devotion here is unrivaled and absolutely contagious. To win is to experience pure elation. To lose is unimaginable. Before today's game, I found myself holding my breath in a local cafe as pictures of riotous streets and murderous fans went dancing through my head. In fact, I did see a riot last week... after Argentina WON. How can the streets be safe after a loss? How will anything ever get done? With the national high of Mundial making grown men positively giddy, I fear the national depression of a loss like the plague. But let's not focus on the negative right now. As one of my students told me: Argentina has not done this good in my whole lifetime. Clearly, fate has smiled down on me to land me here, right now, to experience the feverish thrill of Mundial and to give me mad dreams of rapid spanish commetary punctuated by GOOOOOOAAAAALLLLL! Ahhhhh. Like music to my ears. If only I could hear...
June 27, 2010
June 20, 2010
Winter Solstice in June
As we all know, life cannot always be happy. In order to appreciate happiness, we are forced to attend to cycles of depression or at the very least, a mild bout of melancholy. Usually during these down cycles in our lives, many of us spend a lot of time thinking about what we might have done wrong, what we should maybe do differently, and how much better everyone else seems to have it. Is this healthy? Maybe not, but I am convinced that it is natural and even necessary in the larger scheme of things.
Alas, this cyclical existence of ups and down applies to even the most swaggering, adventuresome life. And right now, I'm decidedly lacking swagger for my adventure as I hit a down cycle hard and struggle to move back into the light. Perhaps some of my dark mood is tied to the dark days here. After all, tomorrow is the WINTER solstice, which marks 9 months of winter in a row for me. That is... hard. Outside of Alaska, there are very few people in the world who can push through nine months of winter without some sense of the renewal of spring coming their way. Although I will admit that I have had it easier than all of my family and friends in Oregon this year, who are still waiting for their much deserved summer with July 4th just around the corner. Many people get the blues in the winter: the short, dark days; the cold that makes you stiff; the tendency toward hibernation and the boredom that entails. For me, winter is always a difficult time unless you happen to be strapped onto skis and flying down a snow-slick mountain at exhilarating speeds.
Maybe my current depression is related to the simple fact that I can't afford to strap on skis and cure my winter blues with speed for the 4th season in a row. And now: the Andes, so tantalizingly close, are positively breaking me. Without money in your pocket to have grand adventures in a new place, I think moving somewhere spectacular can actually be harder than staying somewhere familiar. And after the ultimate high of being on the move across Argentina for a month, this last month of staying put has been quite the opposite for me. Life on the move entailed making new friends every night, a new city every few days, and a new adventure every morning. Now I am faced with landlubber's anxiety (phrase courtesy of Phillip Pullman), where I worry about finding work, having enough clothes, food, and friends, and struggling with boredom. Mendoza, the city that was so vibrant and alive to me just one month ago, is closing up shop for the winter. The street musicians and open markets have been replaced by little more than crisp leaves in the cold breeze and the stark shadows of naked, skeletal trees. I am missing the music and life and laughter of summertime as this endless winter drags ever on.
Inside too, all is not well. Like two caged birds, Pat and I have been fighting incessantly, almost eager to egg each other on. Undoubtedly, we are spending far too much time inside. And being deathly ill and bedridden together for 4 days certainly did little to contribute to our equilibrium. But here we are, so far from home, and fighting about these mundane but all important landlubber worries. Still no work for Pat, still no money for rent. Another job for me, but not enough to pay the bills. And we keep looking at one another and asking: Is this worth it? Can we really do this?
Up and down, up and down. I can only hope that as the winter dark ebbs and gives way to more light tomorrow night, our lives too, will find a way to be light and happy and musical again.
Alas, this cyclical existence of ups and down applies to even the most swaggering, adventuresome life. And right now, I'm decidedly lacking swagger for my adventure as I hit a down cycle hard and struggle to move back into the light. Perhaps some of my dark mood is tied to the dark days here. After all, tomorrow is the WINTER solstice, which marks 9 months of winter in a row for me. That is... hard. Outside of Alaska, there are very few people in the world who can push through nine months of winter without some sense of the renewal of spring coming their way. Although I will admit that I have had it easier than all of my family and friends in Oregon this year, who are still waiting for their much deserved summer with July 4th just around the corner. Many people get the blues in the winter: the short, dark days; the cold that makes you stiff; the tendency toward hibernation and the boredom that entails. For me, winter is always a difficult time unless you happen to be strapped onto skis and flying down a snow-slick mountain at exhilarating speeds.
Maybe my current depression is related to the simple fact that I can't afford to strap on skis and cure my winter blues with speed for the 4th season in a row. And now: the Andes, so tantalizingly close, are positively breaking me. Without money in your pocket to have grand adventures in a new place, I think moving somewhere spectacular can actually be harder than staying somewhere familiar. And after the ultimate high of being on the move across Argentina for a month, this last month of staying put has been quite the opposite for me. Life on the move entailed making new friends every night, a new city every few days, and a new adventure every morning. Now I am faced with landlubber's anxiety (phrase courtesy of Phillip Pullman), where I worry about finding work, having enough clothes, food, and friends, and struggling with boredom. Mendoza, the city that was so vibrant and alive to me just one month ago, is closing up shop for the winter. The street musicians and open markets have been replaced by little more than crisp leaves in the cold breeze and the stark shadows of naked, skeletal trees. I am missing the music and life and laughter of summertime as this endless winter drags ever on.
Inside too, all is not well. Like two caged birds, Pat and I have been fighting incessantly, almost eager to egg each other on. Undoubtedly, we are spending far too much time inside. And being deathly ill and bedridden together for 4 days certainly did little to contribute to our equilibrium. But here we are, so far from home, and fighting about these mundane but all important landlubber worries. Still no work for Pat, still no money for rent. Another job for me, but not enough to pay the bills. And we keep looking at one another and asking: Is this worth it? Can we really do this?
Up and down, up and down. I can only hope that as the winter dark ebbs and gives way to more light tomorrow night, our lives too, will find a way to be light and happy and musical again.
June 15, 2010
The Wrath of R
Sigh. Times are a bit hard for me today. Why? Today was supposed to be a good day: my first day of work. That part wasn't a total disaster (although pretty close). Mostly however, I am mystified by the strange, strong mix of Argentine culture embodied in my host mother, R. Yesterday, I felt sure we were getting along well, today I am convinced she hates me. If only I could have the words to say to her: explain! But that's not the problem, the problem is culture, culture clash, and my seemingly endless faux pas in this household.
Last week, when I entered the kitchen to make some tea, R stopped me and said she "wanted to talk. To both of us." Sounds ominous to me. When we are all gathered in the kitchen and she has sealed us off from the rest of the house with the big oak and glass sliding door, she says the following, more or less: "Nelly (she refuses to use my real name because it is too difficult to say, like many people here), you can't wash dishes." Really? That's news; I have 20 or so years of practice. Clearly, I am not doing it correctly because she has some examples of my shoddy workmanship on hand to show me. Exhibit A was a heavy cast iron pot and lid. I had left a smear of grease on the lid. Fair enough. Exhibit B a butter knife that showed trace amounts of soap. Oops, I messed up. Sorry, sorry, sorry R. It won't happen again. I'll do it better next time. A few days later, however, she asks me "why don't you wash my dishes too, if they are in the sink? You are washing yours, why leave them?" Hmmm.... because you think I do a crappy job? Because they are yours? A few days previous, I had used the wrong chair to dry a pair of jeans by the heater. The day before that, I wasn't cooking the pasta correctly. We can't touch the washer because we will "break it." Some goes for the tea cups, the fireplace, and most of the appliances.
Now, I am a firm believer in homestays. I think they are great way to learn more about the host culture, the language, and work out some of those embarrassing faux pas in a safe and forgiving environment. But your host family should be a little flexible as you get the hang of it, right? So we come to today's episode with Ros. Running low on food, we dragged ourselves to the supermercado last night after a long day of wine tasting/biking. There, we bought a few necessities to tide us over for a few more days. With work slow for me and nonexistent for Pat, we are on a close budget. Upon waking up this morning (before sunrise for me), I found that all of our bread and most of our ham and cheese were gone. Eaten. Adios. After work, I decided to ask R about these mysterious disappearances. Taking a cue from her own past behavior, I left a simple note, asking: "Sorry, R, but did you eat some of our food? We don't mind sharing but would you ask please?" Oh Nelly (hehe). In response I got a page of closely worded Spanish, in which she informed me that her "manners and education" would never allow her to eat someone else's food without asking. But sorry, her son ate it. Right.
So she was pissed. She was pissed because her son ate our food and I asked, thus insulting her manners. Crap. But now, I get only stony silence from her and I am positively petrified to enter the kitchen. This is what I really hate about homestays: when they go wrong. Now, home is not a haven but yet another source of anxiety. I want to be friends. I really do. I want to sit and be involved with her, have a nice conversation. Most of the time, she is out or sequestered in her room upstairs. S, the previous homestay occupant in our room, said she sometimes went upstairs to have a chat with R at night. But whenever I go upstairs, she looks at me like I'm intruding and asks what I want. I'm feeling overwhelmed, upset, and bad about myself. How can I make this work? The last thing I want to do is burn any bridges in Mendoza, especially since her brother is the mayor. Any advice? I've done the homestay thing before but always with families, never just one individual. Maybe she is just more set in her own ways and I'm not fitting in? I feel like the loser at a middle school dance after the most popular kid in school spit on me.
Not to mention, in my first teaching lesson today, just about everything that could go wrong, did. From running out of time to being unable to get the technology working (classic teacher mistake), I felt like I should just give up. Miraculously, at the end of the disaster, my boss said I did a pretty good job. At least I'm not fired, I guess... Now, my stomach hurts due to the huge, over sized knot of anxiety I've built up and i can't stop thinking about how I'm going to pay the rent next month, let alone find a new place if R doesn't defrost soon. What to do, what to do? These are the days when I feel like crawling back into bed and hiding my head. Which is, more or less, exactly what I'm doing now. As I cower in my bed, I find myself thinking: when do I get to experience the real Argentina? The nightlife, the friends, the laughing and chatting that I see all around me? Is this life really any better than the one we left behind? Is it time to give up?
Last week, when I entered the kitchen to make some tea, R stopped me and said she "wanted to talk. To both of us." Sounds ominous to me. When we are all gathered in the kitchen and she has sealed us off from the rest of the house with the big oak and glass sliding door, she says the following, more or less: "Nelly (she refuses to use my real name because it is too difficult to say, like many people here), you can't wash dishes." Really? That's news; I have 20 or so years of practice. Clearly, I am not doing it correctly because she has some examples of my shoddy workmanship on hand to show me. Exhibit A was a heavy cast iron pot and lid. I had left a smear of grease on the lid. Fair enough. Exhibit B a butter knife that showed trace amounts of soap. Oops, I messed up. Sorry, sorry, sorry R. It won't happen again. I'll do it better next time. A few days later, however, she asks me "why don't you wash my dishes too, if they are in the sink? You are washing yours, why leave them?" Hmmm.... because you think I do a crappy job? Because they are yours? A few days previous, I had used the wrong chair to dry a pair of jeans by the heater. The day before that, I wasn't cooking the pasta correctly. We can't touch the washer because we will "break it." Some goes for the tea cups, the fireplace, and most of the appliances.
Now, I am a firm believer in homestays. I think they are great way to learn more about the host culture, the language, and work out some of those embarrassing faux pas in a safe and forgiving environment. But your host family should be a little flexible as you get the hang of it, right? So we come to today's episode with Ros. Running low on food, we dragged ourselves to the supermercado last night after a long day of wine tasting/biking. There, we bought a few necessities to tide us over for a few more days. With work slow for me and nonexistent for Pat, we are on a close budget. Upon waking up this morning (before sunrise for me), I found that all of our bread and most of our ham and cheese were gone. Eaten. Adios. After work, I decided to ask R about these mysterious disappearances. Taking a cue from her own past behavior, I left a simple note, asking: "Sorry, R, but did you eat some of our food? We don't mind sharing but would you ask please?" Oh Nelly (hehe). In response I got a page of closely worded Spanish, in which she informed me that her "manners and education" would never allow her to eat someone else's food without asking. But sorry, her son ate it. Right.
So she was pissed. She was pissed because her son ate our food and I asked, thus insulting her manners. Crap. But now, I get only stony silence from her and I am positively petrified to enter the kitchen. This is what I really hate about homestays: when they go wrong. Now, home is not a haven but yet another source of anxiety. I want to be friends. I really do. I want to sit and be involved with her, have a nice conversation. Most of the time, she is out or sequestered in her room upstairs. S, the previous homestay occupant in our room, said she sometimes went upstairs to have a chat with R at night. But whenever I go upstairs, she looks at me like I'm intruding and asks what I want. I'm feeling overwhelmed, upset, and bad about myself. How can I make this work? The last thing I want to do is burn any bridges in Mendoza, especially since her brother is the mayor. Any advice? I've done the homestay thing before but always with families, never just one individual. Maybe she is just more set in her own ways and I'm not fitting in? I feel like the loser at a middle school dance after the most popular kid in school spit on me.
Not to mention, in my first teaching lesson today, just about everything that could go wrong, did. From running out of time to being unable to get the technology working (classic teacher mistake), I felt like I should just give up. Miraculously, at the end of the disaster, my boss said I did a pretty good job. At least I'm not fired, I guess... Now, my stomach hurts due to the huge, over sized knot of anxiety I've built up and i can't stop thinking about how I'm going to pay the rent next month, let alone find a new place if R doesn't defrost soon. What to do, what to do? These are the days when I feel like crawling back into bed and hiding my head. Which is, more or less, exactly what I'm doing now. As I cower in my bed, I find myself thinking: when do I get to experience the real Argentina? The nightlife, the friends, the laughing and chatting that I see all around me? Is this life really any better than the one we left behind? Is it time to give up?
June 8, 2010
The Search is Painful
I'm sorry to admit it: I haven't posted anything new for awhile. For too long. I haven't even talked about our new place! I haven't talked at all about how it feels to be living here. I haven't told you about my new interactive Peter Pan Spanish book (ages 3 and up). I haven't mentioned the obscure Argentine play we stumbled into by accident on our way to see Robin Hood. I have given no indication of how cold the nights have gotten here, how I was forced ;) to go shopping for some new clothes. All of these things deserve mention, to be certain, but the reality is that right now, my life has been consumed by the search for work. I am living and breathing this search now, as our money dwindles and time runs short. The time is now for something to happen. Yet this search, like all my previous quests for employment, has been long, laborious, and painful.
I want to talk about my search, both as a guide for anyone thinking about doing the same kind of thing, and because I think I have learned much about Argentine culture through these hardships and mishaps of the past few weeks. Which I will glad share with you here.
Our search for work actually began over 4 months ago, in early February when we finished our teaching certifications and started to apply to hundreds (yes, really!) of language schools throughout Argentina via the internet. As we soon discovered, Argentinians (and I suspect most South Americans) are not overly found of indirect contact. This includes, but is not limited to: internet, email, telephone calls, snail mail and fax. As you might suspect, this cultural aversion to indirect contact significantly hinders a search for employment from thousands of miles away in a distant country. Those hundreds of email applications representing probably 50 hours of labor got us absolutely nowhere. If you are looking for work in Argentina, I would seriously dissuade you from even attempting the electronic route. Your best bet is to milk your friends and acquaintances for contacts in Argentina. Even the most obscure personal link will get you closer to an interview than hundreds of hours of online communication.
After miserably failing to elicit any responses from our cozy home in the US, we did something many people might consider lunacy: we bought a plane ticket and packed our backpacks anyway. We took the bare minimum since without a job, we also had no home by extension. But rejoice! How liberating to be able to cruise around looking for an ideal location. Once we decided to stay in Mendoza, we started networking our asses off. We asked the name of anyone who seemed even remotely friendly. English speaking locals were often subject to more intense scrutiny, such as: "where did you learn english? Why? Do you have children? Do they go to school for english? Where?" Any school names mentioned I frantically scribbled down in my moleskin. Using this methodology, I learned about the three largest and most well-paying schools in Mendoza, none of which were listed anywhere online. And that's another secret about Argentina: they like to keep the best stuff under wraps. This is true for buying meat in the local carniciera (ask for the stuff NOT on display), and it is true for finding work, too. I recently met a couple of english teachers working in Buenos Aires who had managed to secure jobs via the internet before arriving. Unfortunately, those jobs were so low-paying and miserable that both girls quit within one month. When I met them, they were both looking for something, anything, outside of the big city.
So today, at long last, I managed to make it to one of these three large schools where I dropped off my dusty CV (poor thing hasn't seen much action) and talked with an enthusiastic receptionist who told me: "Yes! We are always struggling to find teachers. I'm sure the director will contact you soon." Hallelujah! However, a saavy American like myself might hear that statement and think: well then, perhaps you should consider making it a touch easier to find you! Just a thought... Of course, the other two schools were closed for siesta by the time I was able to locate them. And this brings me to one more secret: while Argentinians paste huge advertisements for shampoo or tango shows daily on large, street-level wooden billboards; when it comes to signage for any buildings of an official capacity (schools, hospitals, post office, police station...), they seem to favor subtlety. Make sure you always look up the street number, not just the name of your destination.
And so alas, we come to the present. In four months, I have managed to elicit a positive response from ONE potential employer in Argentina. Awesome. If that doesn't give you a warm and fuzzy feeling of accomplishment, you are clearly stone-cold dead. Tomorrow, I will retrace my steps to the other schools and hope for an equally enthusiastic reception. Failing that, I have managed to wrestle together a list of about eight additional language schools in Mendoza who I will HAUNT. And of course, I will continue to hassle the good citizens of Mendoza for information whenever the opportunity presents itself. Luckily, being a sexy blonde in a country stuffed full of machismo pretty much guarantees that opportunities will come my way...
Any small tokens of positive energy, good luck, prayer, karmic intervention, or whatever other proscriptions for problem solving your own personal beliefs uphold, would be greatly appreciated by this little chica canela in my time of need! Love and kisses to all my friends and family who read this blog. xo
I want to talk about my search, both as a guide for anyone thinking about doing the same kind of thing, and because I think I have learned much about Argentine culture through these hardships and mishaps of the past few weeks. Which I will glad share with you here.
Our search for work actually began over 4 months ago, in early February when we finished our teaching certifications and started to apply to hundreds (yes, really!) of language schools throughout Argentina via the internet. As we soon discovered, Argentinians (and I suspect most South Americans) are not overly found of indirect contact. This includes, but is not limited to: internet, email, telephone calls, snail mail and fax. As you might suspect, this cultural aversion to indirect contact significantly hinders a search for employment from thousands of miles away in a distant country. Those hundreds of email applications representing probably 50 hours of labor got us absolutely nowhere. If you are looking for work in Argentina, I would seriously dissuade you from even attempting the electronic route. Your best bet is to milk your friends and acquaintances for contacts in Argentina. Even the most obscure personal link will get you closer to an interview than hundreds of hours of online communication.
After miserably failing to elicit any responses from our cozy home in the US, we did something many people might consider lunacy: we bought a plane ticket and packed our backpacks anyway. We took the bare minimum since without a job, we also had no home by extension. But rejoice! How liberating to be able to cruise around looking for an ideal location. Once we decided to stay in Mendoza, we started networking our asses off. We asked the name of anyone who seemed even remotely friendly. English speaking locals were often subject to more intense scrutiny, such as: "where did you learn english? Why? Do you have children? Do they go to school for english? Where?" Any school names mentioned I frantically scribbled down in my moleskin. Using this methodology, I learned about the three largest and most well-paying schools in Mendoza, none of which were listed anywhere online. And that's another secret about Argentina: they like to keep the best stuff under wraps. This is true for buying meat in the local carniciera (ask for the stuff NOT on display), and it is true for finding work, too. I recently met a couple of english teachers working in Buenos Aires who had managed to secure jobs via the internet before arriving. Unfortunately, those jobs were so low-paying and miserable that both girls quit within one month. When I met them, they were both looking for something, anything, outside of the big city.
So today, at long last, I managed to make it to one of these three large schools where I dropped off my dusty CV (poor thing hasn't seen much action) and talked with an enthusiastic receptionist who told me: "Yes! We are always struggling to find teachers. I'm sure the director will contact you soon." Hallelujah! However, a saavy American like myself might hear that statement and think: well then, perhaps you should consider making it a touch easier to find you! Just a thought... Of course, the other two schools were closed for siesta by the time I was able to locate them. And this brings me to one more secret: while Argentinians paste huge advertisements for shampoo or tango shows daily on large, street-level wooden billboards; when it comes to signage for any buildings of an official capacity (schools, hospitals, post office, police station...), they seem to favor subtlety. Make sure you always look up the street number, not just the name of your destination.
And so alas, we come to the present. In four months, I have managed to elicit a positive response from ONE potential employer in Argentina. Awesome. If that doesn't give you a warm and fuzzy feeling of accomplishment, you are clearly stone-cold dead. Tomorrow, I will retrace my steps to the other schools and hope for an equally enthusiastic reception. Failing that, I have managed to wrestle together a list of about eight additional language schools in Mendoza who I will HAUNT. And of course, I will continue to hassle the good citizens of Mendoza for information whenever the opportunity presents itself. Luckily, being a sexy blonde in a country stuffed full of machismo pretty much guarantees that opportunities will come my way...
Any small tokens of positive energy, good luck, prayer, karmic intervention, or whatever other proscriptions for problem solving your own personal beliefs uphold, would be greatly appreciated by this little chica canela in my time of need! Love and kisses to all my friends and family who read this blog. xo
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