Dodging Missiles and other Boludo Bombs

I’ve recently solved a mystery---or cultural phenomenon perhaps---that I’ve previously identified as the “Argentine Missile Crisis”.  You see, my experience with kissing Argentines (4 times out of 5…which is about as many encounters as I’ve had) can only be described as stepping into a war zone, their missile-like tongue ready to attack before the adversary (in this case my mouth) even reaches enemy lines.

Now, at first I thought I was just having a string of bad luck, or maybe I was just being dramatic. But then I started asking around to my fellow expat ladies, and they had tales of the same missile dodging.  Brilliant! I wasn’t the only one suffering from PTSD (Post Traumatic Smooch Disorder?): this was/is actually a thing. But the conundrum wasn’t really uncovered until recently when a very cute American friend of mine (which helps validate his extensive market research) was talking about the way Argentine chicas kiss…. describing a tongue-vacuuming, missile-housing type of encounter. ¡Ya está! That’s it! It all makes sense now. Their kissing is a cultural accommodation really only suited  for other compatriots. Unless, of course, our boy Messi over here is getting you all hot and bothered.

This is the part where I usually stamp a stereotype-reducing postscript, but BA has made me a little cynical (see last posts for confirmation) and I just want to make sure other unknowing soldiers are prepared for beso combat. And it’s my blog, damn it!

In other war metaphors…taking a stroll down any BA sidewalk after an evening of downpour is like walking through the Malvines minefields. Sneaky loose tiles collect the muddied rain and wait for just the right moment to explode all over your new canvas Paezs and poor, exposed legs. Deficient government spending strikes again!

And, finally I said I wouldn’t talk about expat sex life. Well now I’m bursting with 8 months (well 7 years, really) of musings and I thought, “Screw it (ha), here I go.” But, then I thought again. Nope. Let future expats figure it out themselves. I will only say this: Do your sexy business as far outside of your friend circle as possible, but if you get lazy and have a tequila-induced oopsi daisy, don’t expect much more than what the Argentines call a “touch and go” and a casual "hey buddy" the next time you see them at Magdalena's Party.  For now, I’ll continue my confessionals offline and save myself from cringing later. 

Buenos Aires: an adult playground complete with hair pulling, game playing and name-calling. It’s dramatic, confusing and often times infuriating. But, as playgrounds tend to be, it’s fucking fun. And so we swing on.

Until next time, Boludos.

Finding Holly’s Box and Other Jungle Behavior

Head outta the gutter---it’s not what you think.

I received a box from the States a few weeks ago containing a pair of shoes, a pair of pants and my hidden 1-year-old Android (lest we run into any electronic import tax shenanigans). Alas, Argy customs were too clever, and when the box arrived at my house (to my thrilled astonishment!) I was told I needed to pay 500 pesos--that’s over $100--more than the value of the contents in the box.

No explanation, just demand. I refused to pay, of course, and when the deliveryman walked away with my belongings I could do nothing but flip the crazy switch I only discovered I possessed since living down here:

“FUCK YOU!” was my very calm, cool and collected response.

It was at that moment I realized that in order to survive in the BA jungle, one must actually become an animal.

When I walked into the house, my roommates were all quite mortified at the whole thing, but tried to calm me. They let me rant for a bit and then gave me the simple, complacent answer I always get:

“That’s just the system here, there’s nothing you can do” 

No no, there’s always something you can do.

I told my English class about the incident, and one of my older students informed me of a good friend at the Correo that would “take care of the situation”. One phone call later, my box was fee-free and is now waiting with my student for me to pick up.

Boom. 

This seems to be a reoccurring theme in my BA struggle with public affairs. I get frustrated, lose my cool and just when I’m about to flip tables…

...some little Argentine guardian angel of sorts steps in to offer their help. It’s because they know that systems are broken here--they’re used to it--so they feel bad for new, foreign species like me trying to survive in their jungle.

Survival. I’m practically a master now.

And I get to continue to hone my skills after taking a pay cut at a time when inflation here is off the charts. I am now living on what I like to call an unlivable salary. Expats, can I get an amen?!

Luckily, I’m crafty, ambitious and I have parents that I’ve tricked into believing in my lofty pursuits.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Living in Buenos Aires as a freelance writer is a far cry from being a crackhead. 

It can always be worse.

Love,

Holly

Kicking In Cojones and Other BA Survival Tips

It’s been months. Things have happened. Trying to blog them all is impossible now. My best bet is to ramble off highlights, lowlights, observations and wisdoms from the past 5 months in the jungle.

Let’s see…

I’ve been writing for a tech startup website since my last post. This has contributed to both my aversion to leisurely writing and my newfound fascination for the entrepreneurial underworld. It reminds me of the rave scene in Matrix Reloaded except without the beautiful, sweaty people and more glasses with iOS-based banter. I’m kind of into it. So much so that two baby projects of my own have sprung up from the moist, startup earth of Argentina. I’m watering them now. We’ll see how they grow.

The sit-down nature of my job has also caused me severe corporal pain, which has led me to be convinced of the CrossFit advantage (thank you, Hunter...champ). I’ve just come back from my first class. It’s like really rough, really sweaty…yeah, that. In other words, I LOVED IT and I can’t wait for the next steam-blowing session. And, the abs that will inevitably follow, of course. 

I just had five good friends visit for the whole month of July. Pretty decent for a $1500 trip to the end of the earth. I’m still recovering from an overdose of party time and love and a complete lack of sleep. It was awesome. 

We went to Colonia, Uruguay, and stayed at La Casa de Los Limoneros. Magic is the only word that comes close to what we experienced. I will be back. Perhaps my friends will too.

The expat community I’m entangled with is an interesting lot: it’s a constant flow of newbies and despies, bienvenidos and buena suertes. Hook-ups are casual and partying is serious. It’s what I’ve come to expect in the transient lifestyle I’ve signed up for. It’s good, it’s bad, it’s ugly, but it’s always fucking interesting…

...kind of like my love life. Wait, love? No, no. More like British schoolboy affairs with a sprinkling of international flings. The expat sex life is a fascinating one. But, I’ll stop there. I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, and I don’t want to give too much away.

Magdalena’s Party is my jam. It’s where I eat brunch, drink beer and watch Game of Thrones. It’s a place where everybody knows my name and where Sarah Deutch cures my moral hangovers. It’s the down feather pillow in my arroz con mango BA (night)life. And, I have my own personalized margarita glass. So there’s that.

Nightlife? More like early morning life. Sorry, New York—Buenos Aires is truly the city that never sleeps. I wake up from my fiesta siestas around the time most bars in the world are closing, and head out into the big, bad, booze-filled noches of BA, usually till the sun comes up (see last post for more on this activity). It’s a fomo’s paradise and worst nightmare (that’s right, people who have a Fear Of Missing Out…ahem, this guy). I’ve decided not to fight it anymore; my equilibrium has long been adjusted and I can sleep when I’m dead. I hope that’s not any time soon. There's some great parties next week.  

I had my first attempted mugging a few weeks ago. It was 4pm and I was walking in the underpass on a main road (Cabildo, for my BA peeps). Immediately, I was attacked by three little niño thugs for my iPod. In this particular fight or flight situation I figured it was no contest. I screamed in two of their faces; they ran. The hero of the gang continued to paw at my pocket for my Apple toy, and I took his arms, and with a swift kick to his prepubescent cojones, I made sure he wouldn’t be able to have little hooligans of his own someday. I got away with my iPod, but they somehow managed to break it. A clear winner was not crowned that day. (Though, I did walk away unscathed, for that I am grateful).

The collectivo from 9am-10am and 5pm-7pm is a constant wave of pushing and permissos, grazing and groaning (from me, and not the good kind). For someone who has recently experienced the perils of anxiety, this is pretty much the worst- case scenario (that and dealing with the correo, or bank, or co-ghetto, and so on). But, instead of letting the anxiety attack, I have used my daily tasks as therapy. That’s right, the more crowded the bus, the longer the lines or the inevitable “no hays” for most of my requests, the more focused I am at being tranquila. It’s challenging, I’ve cried on occasion, but I’m learning to react in a better way. And, keep my sanity…

 

…This is always my mantra when living abroad. I’m here to be challenged, to be uncomfortable and to add to my life facets. And, that's mostly true. But sometimes easy, convenient and comfortable are not the worst things in the world. As my friend Laura puts it, “Sometimes you just want to sit in your air conditioned living room and watch Bravo TV all day.” Agreed, L, agreed.

This has taken a bit of a bitter tone and…well…fair enough. Perhaps it’s the change in the air I’ve felt here recently. A slight sense of desperation from a city that is trying to keep up with a bureaucracy they abhor.  Subway strikes, piling garbage on the streets, and the blue market hunt for the USD. Again, subjects I know too little about to discuss but definitely feel on the daily. 

Oh yes, and my friends keep leaving (ojito, Sterling!)

But, that’s the nature of the (being a foreigner far away from your norm) beast---you learn, you grow and you do the best you can.

So let’s round this off on a positive tip—BA has invited me to some of the best parties, and I’ve met some solid people that make this experience worth every minute. My job as a writer and teacher are enriching and interesting (and inspiring!) and I wake up looking forward to going to work. Really.

 

I also just went to BA Fashion week, VIP style, with my two favorite people, sipped on bubbles and laughed (at everyone).

Dulce de leche also makes me happy.

And my house. It's a magical place.

There’s much to look forward to in the coming months. Winter is fading, sun is shining, and plans are being hatched for another visiting lot of best friends soon—a MUST for expat survival. 

It's taken a while, but life at the moment is very, very good; my Buenos Aires chapter is shaping up nicely.

Hasta luego, gente.

[Day] Break Dancing and other Self-Realizing Pursuits

Waiting on work to commence (commonly known as unemployment, personally known as funemployment) is tricky business in any city. But in Buenos Aires, it´s another beast altogether.

You know you should lay low, focus and be on your A-game as much of the time as possible in order to maximise your job-obtaining chances and minimize the time it takes to do it.

However, job-searching isolationism coupled with an obligationless tomorrow married by a ferocious social appetite and a city to feed it usually ends in a bitter separation between what you should do and what you actually do. And, in Buenos Aires it means you party. Usually, till the break of dawn. Could be a Tuesday. Could be a Thursday. Like the last few Thursdays at hip-hop club Lost where I watch serious Argentinian break dance competitions whilst dancing with British Gap Yah kids that include heirs to certain sandwich empires and successors to certain British thrones (the details of this story are best expressed in person!).

Needless to say, I´m easily convinced to go out.

Though, going to bed after the sun which is inevitable in a city where parties start at 2am, is not the best way to start a productive day. Consequently, I wake up with a buzz in my head and just enough time to question my existence; this usually doesnt end well for my morale.

Low points have included looking at plane tickets back home and eating dulce de leche out of a tub.

Luckily, this is mearly a by-product of living in a new, foreign city and one I know, with a little bit of time, can properly be managed. Even luckier is the fact that I´ve weaseled my way into a seriously great group of friends here that have helped in making BA more of a home. Albeit, they certainly don´t help in the social curtailment challenge.

Good news-

This week marks the commencment of my English teaching endeavours and a possible full-time writing gig, which will subsequently give me a purpose here and hopefully keep me on the straight and narrow. Or, at least give me a reason to go to bed before the sun. Mostly. Sometimes. I mean, I am a social creature after all.

Everything in moderation and all that...

Weather is getting cooler, and autumn is rolling in. My favorite season, and I get to experience it twice this year. Thank you, Buenos Aires.

Things are definitely on the up and up!

Ciao for now...

New Air

As the dust from two months of South American travel settles, and I exhaustively hang up my backpack, I can finally breathe in the air of the city that charmed me to this region of the world in the first place…

Buenos Aires.

Good Airs.

Fair Winds.

It´s a city securing its membership in the elite ¨Great Cosmopolitan Cities of the World¨ club. New York and London, two ladies that occupy a large portion of my heart, should be thrilled to welcome this new Latin cohort. And, maybe take some notes.

Since arriving here three weeks ago I have naturally covered all emotional ground, tackling daily internal/external dialogue such as:

• What are you doing here, Holly?! Go home. Get a proper job. Stop mucking about (British Holly, obviously.)
• Holly, your Spanish is poor, you´re in serious trouble.
• Oh dear God, they´ve cut my hair into a mullet. Must improve my Spanish immediately!
• We know the steak and wine and empanadas are delicious and cheap, Holly, but you keep this up and you´ll be a gordita with a drink problem in no time. Oh, no. I just remembered dulce de leche. In everything. I am in serious trouble.
• Should I get myself an Argentinean boyfriend? Unlikely, if previous indulgences persist.
• Need a job. English teacher? Probably. Dog walker? Er, no. American voice-over star? Boom!
• Current social obligations low. Current free time high. Oh, right. I should start a blog.

Thankfully, these fine life details can slowly be smoothed within the comforts of the most important discovery I´ve made here in BA thus far....my home,

Casa B or Casa Aguilar, not sure what sticks yet

A gorgeous, warm and magical house nestled amongst the mansions and embassies and delicate cafes of Begrano, a neighborhood that would happily share high tea with the Chelseas and Sohos of the transatlantic metropolises to the north. It´s a neighborhood that infuses inspiration with just a short walk down its tree-lined streets; a daily infusion I´m finding myself becoming addicted to.

Beatriz, la mujer de la casa, is a 70-something, widowed, retired Spanish professor that opens up her home to students, young people and anyone who loves her house as much as she does. Currently residing here are, myself, Sam from Texas, Carolina from France (who came as a student 9 years ago and never left…understandably so!), Cara from Brazil, and Raul, Beatriz´s son. (It´s a big house.) Beatriz has become my tutor, my lunch companion, my friend. I´m enjoying long days chatting with B in Spanglish, tasting here dulce de leche surprises, watching the Oscars (Angelina…..que feo!), and generally learning what I can from her. She´s lived in Buenos Aires all her life, knows everyone, and for the past 30 years has created a lovely home that I am happy to now be a part of. Even if just for a short while.

If you´re concerned that I´ll soon be taking up knitting too, don´t worry. I´ve discovered Palermo Soho.

In places like Rio Café, I blissfully sip expensive maracuja caprihans, mingle with expats like Withers and Sterling (note: NOT Lords of 18th Century England, in fact, dudebros from the East Coast) and get a feel for what I call ¨the hustle¨. I´ve met some interesting characters with fascinating accounts of how they ended up here. From food delivery services, to hot sauce creators, to dove hunting resort owners, this city is filled with implants from all over the world who possess a keen entrepreneurial and ambitious spirit unlike I´ve experienced anywhere else; not necessarily competitive or aggressive, it´s more a feeling of collaboration, where everyone has got each other´s back. Ideas and projects that one would never have the prospect or money or even inspiration to develop in a city like, say, New York, can actually be achieved here. I read a great article from nymag.com from 2006, a time when the economy here was just starting to heal from its 2001 crash, featuring expats who decided to make their meager New York millions stretch exponentially by packing up and heading south- http://nymag.com/guides/changeyourlife/16047/

Sure, as ideas are hatched and businesses are created, competition will grow and the current solidarity felt amongst expats here will likely come undone. And, perhaps I am misinformed. Or, disillusioned. That, I guess, is to be determined.

For now, I am happy to capitalize on this newfound free time and can-do attitude, figure out why I´m here, and join in on the hustle.

Oh, yes. And translate my observations along the way.

Until next time...