I just went to get gelato and stopped at McDonalds on my way back. Say hello to my fat life. 

The scene: 4am. I’m just returning/stumbling/wandering home from going out. I may or may not have slightly overdulged in some good ol’ fashioned firewater over the course of the past few hours. As I climb the stairs to my room I hear a scuffling on the second floor. I approach cautiously. I step onto the landing and from inside the bathroom room strolls Agú (again, 24 year-old host brother) like he’s leading a troup of thousands in the goddamn March of the Penguins. He then proclaims to me how fucking high he is. “I’m High as SHIT! So high motherfucker.” Apparently he’d been waiting for me to come home so he could give me a little scare, but he was having trouble finding the best spot to hide. I had a feeling he’d been pursuing this venture for a while. Anyway, I convince him it’d be a good idea to go say hello to Tyler, the other American student in our house. Agú, without hesitation, agrees and creeps upstairs as I follow in his trail. When we get to the third floor he saunters into Tyler’s room and performs the most graceful of swan dives on the sleeping body. The sleeping body, who is no longer sleeping, starts screaming all sorts of profanities and grabs the 2 litre bottle of water from Agú’s hands, walks over to the winding staircase, and drops it down in a slinky-esque fashion. All three of us listen in silence. Tyler and I go to bed to the soundtrack of Agú mopping the floors, tail between his legs, still high as shit, mutterring “why me… why me.” 

Now I understand this story could’ve happened anywhere, but the truth of the matter is that it didn’t. It happened on Zapata street, in Buenos Aires, Argentina. And it all (amost all) transpired in Spanish. 

Things that make it universal: the actors were, to some extent, in an altered state of mind.

Things that make it unique: all substances consumed were legal.

It’s come to my attention that Bs As is down, completely down, with the Mary Jane. I haven’t been able to determine whether it’s actually legal to buy it, but I’m almost positive you can have it on your person in small quantities, and that its consumption is just fine with the po-lease (potentionally non-existent, will report back later). This past Monday we went to a concert with about 20 different drums and trying to bring home the bacon alongside the hotdog and beer stands were some magic brownie and cosmic cake venders. Now, that’s pretty crazy to me. What’s also crazy is the fact that I brought my host family tea leaves as a gift from the States and their first reaction was that it was some high quality ganga. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. 

And on another note, I just got back from the Tigre Delta, a system of rivers and small islands just outside metropolitan Buenos Aires. The water was brown and we couldn’t swim in it, but I certainly wasn’t going to complain about 85 degree temperature and the a-lotta-bit-less muggy/polluted air outside the city. I’ll post some pictures of that little excursion soon. 

Happy weekend y hasta luego,

There comes a point in everyone’s life when they have to take a look in the mirror and stop trying to convince themselves they are someone that in reality, they are not. For me, this period of deception lasted from the 25th of February until the 9th of March in the year of our Lord two-thousand and ten. During the duration of this long week and five days, I made a whole-hearted attempt to trick myself into thinking I was a native resident of Buenos Aires, a porteño. To my surprise, however, there’s a little more going on up in my head than I thought, and try as I might, this guy’s cerebral dome piece was having none of that business.

To better explicate myself, I’m going draw upon an image that is foreign to no one, regardless of their worldly location: that of the hamburger (granted there are probably a few people in the world that don’t know what a beef patty is, but for all intents and purposes, just go with me).

Throughout my short twenty years of being in existence I’ve probably consumed a mountain of hamburgers, primarily a result of the reality that that they’re served with fries. And I love me some fries. Until two weeks ago though, most every hamburger that’s made an appearance in my digestive track has been the same. One or two patties. Bun. Mustard, onion and tomato. Some quarter pounders, some half pounders. Some with butter. Some (most) with American or Cheddar cheese. Bacon. I’ll even throw a pickle in the mix every now and then. They are mostly all alike.

Since arriving in Buenos Aires, I have ordered four hamburgers (And while you might interpret this fact as a testament to my lack of adventurous spirit, I would argue that the hamburger is often the only thing I can read on the menu. I know how to say single-engine plane, the spine of a book, and trundle bed in spanish—how can I not have learned to say chicken wings yet? Or avocado? Or mustard? This is a conversation for another time). Each hamburger down here has had one thing in common: they’ve all been served on plates. Other than that, I have recently learned to take NOTHING for granted when it comes to a burger. My first came on a bun, with condiments on the side. Huge plus. It also came with ham and hard boiled eggs. Weird, and small negative. The second was served elegantly between two slices of pita bread. Again with the ham, again with the eggs. No condiments. The third, in all it’s unholiness, made it before my eyes with no bun, no condiments, no vegetables, no hard boiled eggs, and no ham. In fact, those two damn patties sat on that sorry little plate alone. In what twisted, backwards world are rubbery, low-grade hamburger patties served alone? At least dress em’ up a little. Take em’ for a spin. SHOW THEM A LITTLE DECENCY.  I suppose it’s in this world, the country of Argentina, that the hamburger garners little respect.

So you might be asking yourself what the rant that preceded this sentence has to do with being true to yourself. Well, the answer is quite simple. It was upon being served those nudy hamburgers that I came to a profound realization: Peter, you aren’t a porteño. You are an American. Despite our often subpar reputation abroad, I’d be willing to put it all on the line for our hamburgers. We most definitely, DEFINITELY got that equation right. So the next day I marched my slightly-taller-than-everyone-in-this-city self to the closest McDonalds, got a #4 (quarter pounder with cheese), sat down at a table alone, and enjoyed the shit out of my American burger. Large fry on the side. And a coke.

I would briefly like to call to your attention that you just read six hundred and thirty mostly useless words about hamburgers. That is dedication. Thank you for supporting me. Your reward is a few observations that will actually legitimize this update on my life.

1. Activia is not just a normal yogurt. It causes diarrea. Stay away.

2. Avocados are eaten by the half with a generous helping of a sauce called Salsa Golf, which is a combination of Ketchup and Mayonaise.

3. Traveling in large groups is very difficult. Don’t go anywhere with more than five people. (Let’s call this the third rule of thumb in Buenos Aires).

4. Toilets here don’t flush clockwise or counter-clockwise. Rather, they flush like a waterfall. From somewhere in the bowl, a location which I have yet to discover, comes a massive flood of water. Pretty cool actually.

5. When the shower and toilet occupy the same space in the same room, don’t turn on the faucet before you sit down to do your business.

6. Relaciones casuales doesn’t not mean a casual relationship. It means casual sex.

7. If the native girls are talking to you at a club, they’re either looking for you to buy them a drink, or they’re sixteen years old.

8. A conversation in Spanish:

Cab driver: Where are you from? Me: Buenos Aires! Cab driver: No you’re not. Me: Oh yea? Well how do you know that? Cab driver: Your english is too good.

That is not a compliment.

9. You put your subway card in the slot and enter to the left.

And 9.5. You will not recieve a refund for wasting five subway trips by trying to enter on the wrong side.

10. Be careful of getting accidentally sneaky drunk here. (Again, a conversation for another time).

11. There is no shame in Buenos Aires. If you have a bikini, you are by all means encouraged to wear it. Consult the pictures in this album.

12. I told someone they were being pickpocketted two days ago. It was just a friend zipping up their backpack. Not my issue.

Hasta luego,

The Subte (abbreviation for subterranio, meaning underground train) was broken today, and I had no monedas (coins) to take the bus, so this little piggy had to walk his sorry ass all the way home. Don’t worry, though, I stopped for some churros on the way.

As I continued along what most closely resembled the trail of tears I sauntered past the botanical gardens and stopped in to take a pic or two. Apparently El Jardín Botanico is a euphemism for “Dengue/Yellow Fever/Malaria Gardens,” because I swear I’ve never seen so many mosquitoes in my LIFE! Anyway, there weren’t many interesting plants so I shifted my attention to the statues. They were pretty cool and, in fact, relatively representational of the city’s population in that they were all white. Check out the photos here. I also put up a few more pictures of my house.

Tonight about 70 CIEE kids are heading to a bar called “Hummer,” but I’ll probably leave early cause I don’t want to be hangin’ around with so many Americans—it does major damage to your street cred. Then again, can street cred even go into the negatives?

Hasta Luego,

Just a side note—If you haven’t noticed, all the titles of my entries are going to be in Spanish. This will be done for two reasons:

The first, so you might look them up on google translate and learn yourself a little Spanish (known in BA as castellano), and the second, so you might put in context, if only a little bit, the foreign-ness of everything here.

So, the topic of tonight’s discussion: the Argentine dinner table. I’m sure most everyone can nostalgically recall a few childhood meals, or one of your sibling’s birthday celebrations where your mom cooked his/her favorite meal, etc. After all, in America, dinner is when families come together to enjoy good, home cooked food with (hopefully) even better company (the US—so ideal, so perfect). Here, however, it’s where people come to over-indulge in steak and wine (normal so far), and where they openly and enthusiastically scream profanities at each other. It’s an experience.

I’ve eaten at my casa every night since arriving, almost a week, and at each meal someone has muttered, yelled, or proclaimed some form of abrasive commentary directed towards someone at the table. And while this is striking to ME, it’s life as per usual on their end. “Family member X, you look like Michael Jackson post his third nose job.” “Family member Y, that girl you brought home last night looked like a donkey’s right ass cheek.” What amazes me, though, is that no one takes much offense when offended. And what’s more, they’ll probably admit it’s true! Having come from a culture where much of everything is dressed up, I can’t but help embrace the honesty that is the norm between kin.

On a slightly different note, yet still with regards to dinner, is the prevalence of an extreme language barrier. Considering the lethargic approach Americans take towards learning other languages (a notion based on the principle that everyone will eventually speak in our tongue), upon my arrival in Buenos I figured most porteños (meaning, people of the port, or Buenos Aireians), would be fluent in both Castellano as well as English. THIS IS NOT THE CASE (NOOOO (HELP!)!)! As a result of the overwhelming Argentinian pride, most people forty years and older do not speak English. And a large number of younger people are also unable to effectively communicate. So what does this language barrier have to do with the dinner table? Well, I have observed that the younger members of the dining party like to speak in English so that the older members can’t understand them. Agú, for example, told me tonight, “I’m going to kill you mother f*cker, and then sleep with your m*ther. And you can’t do nothing about. First I’m going to slap you in the face with a loaf of bread. And before that I’m going to take a shit in your mouth when you sleep.”

Intermission: apologies for the graphic nature of that last sentence.

And as this is transpiring, Memé, my 94 year-old grandmother, is asking me in her Castellano (which is mostly likely of the middle ages), “What did he just say?” Now, I alluded to the prevalence of honesty earlier, but there is no way in HELL I’m going to try to translate that for her. So I just say in my Castellano (which is most likely not a real language), “I don’t know. Jaja?” We have now arrived at the second rule of thumb in Buenos Aires: take the good with the bad, which is applicable to both food and social commentary. And the second and a half rule of thumb: never, under any circumstances, acknowledge what Agú has to say—its probably only 95% true.

I’ll throw up some more pictures of the house in the near future so you can put my habitación (room) in context.

Hasta Luego,

Because pictures are worth a thousand words (200 in Spanish because my vocabulary isn’t very large, it’s an issue). Every time I throw up a new album I’ll post a link to the gallery so you don’t have to keep checking back. If you want me to send you a photo, just say the word! Enjoy.

Where to begin? Well, I guess with the title of this little entry: los travestidos. After meeting my new parents for the first time in the hotel lobby, we got in their SUV and began the trek home. I’m living in a neighborhood called Palermo, which is known for its really cool clubs and restaurants (or so I hear; again, I have the relative intelligence of a first grade child). As we’re passing through “Los Bosques de Palermo” (BA’s equivalent of Central Park), I notice a bunch of women with HUGE boobs on the side of the road, all of whom are sensually rubbing their bursting curves and I couldn’t help but ask Juan, mi padre, for an explanation. He looks at me and says very sternly, “Peter, they… they are the transvestites. Those titties are fake. They have pensises. And they will rob your ass broke.” First rule of thumb in BA: avoid the “women” in the Park.

Now, I need to preface this next section with the fact that it’s going to be very hard to describe my house accurately, as it was built before the year 1920 and I’m about 99% sure similar architectural structures seise to exist. To begin, you enter through the garage, which is very narrow and long. There are two sections to the casa: the first one is home to myself and another student from the US (Tyler of Pepperdine University) and Augustine (nickname Agu, pronounciation Ah-goo, meaning 24 year-old cheff that may or may not be employed at the moment). Tyler and I live on the third floor in separate rooms and Agu lives on the second where you will also find our communal bathroom. I went into the door on the first floor last night and it is apparently where Juan practices surgery on animals. The space looked similar to a morgue, and I left immediately. There is a small lawn that separates our tower from the main house, where Juan y Susana (mi madre), Juan Ignacio (36 year old lawyer), and Memé (94, wife of Father Time) reside. There is also a caretaker that potentially lives in there, but she talks without any annunciation because she has very plump cheeks and for that reason (and that I can hardly speak Spanish), I have hardly any idea what her situation is. I’m not going to get too in depth with any one of these characters at this time, as I don’t know them well enough to provide any meaningful commentary. So, let’s move on to some things I do know about.

1. On one of the roofs in the main house, there is a senile Rottweiler named Tyson that is “never to be touched or fed.” And on another roof, there is an inflatable pool. Normal/Who’s up for a swim?

2. Everyone has a dog here, they are all dirty (and some are confined to roofs, and they are clinically insane, and they are named Tyson).

3. Again, I have no idea how much money I’ve spending. Pesos are a joke.

4. The last cleaning lady that worked here got fired because she stole 4,000 pesos. Some people take them more seriously than I do.

5. One of my home rules is “Over-Night guests are NOT allowed.” I find this regla slightly unecessary as my bed is large enough to comfortably fit four feet of my body. That means the knees and below get the shaft.

6. I have not taken a solid shit in four days. I think this is because “lechuga”, lettuce, does not exist.

7. Que rica means “how delicious!”, not “how wealthy!” Apparently people aren’t as impressed with my pesos as I thought they were.

8. I still have no friends. As per usual.

Hasta Luego,

Jesus Christ, talk about culture shock. It took me 15 minutes just to log into this damn thing—who would have known the @ is so hard to type on these Argentinian keyboards. After debating whether to scribe this message in morse code via the num pad, which I think might be efficient, I’ve decided it’s a better idea to apply myself now and make some mistakes while I still have an excuse.

So here it is, the first of what will be many an update on Argentina. After almost missing my flight out of Atlanta, I found myself sitting comfortably in row 15, just behind First Class (it’s funny how they know where to put those just-a-bit-shy-of-VIP passengers). I popped myself a little Ambien and the ambience became just right, darkness. I woke shortly thereafter with about 30 minutes left of my 10 hour flight. We waited around in the airport for a while and then took a bus to the hotel.

Now I know the motto of going abroad is to give everyone a shot, and to avoid judging people based on first impressions, but that’s about ten times easier said than done. I have three roommates and they are goddamn characters. One of them, roughly 6’5 with a shoulder length ponytail, claims he’s down here to study abroad, but I’m pretty damn sure he’s working on the side for Google Maps. This kid took a picture of EVERYTHING on our hour long walk around Barrio Congreso (the neighborhood we’re staying in for the night). World, say hello to Buenos Aires Street View, courtesy Dan from Iowa.  The other two are impossibly awkward (and cheap), which came out when we went to lunch and there was a 3 peso charge per person to sit down (about 50 cents)—a pretty typical fee at any restaurant. They put up the biggest damn fight, though, and said it was too expensive. Are these kids out of their damn minds? I’m not doing takeout in a foreign country for my first meal. Not only that, PESOS ARE LIKE MONOPOLY MONEY. If you lose them, you can always borrow from the bank! I convinced them to stay and they read everything off the menu in creepy voices for the rest of the meal. Unbeknownst to them the entire seating area was their audience as they did and said weird shit. At least we’re only in this hotel for a night. Also, my room smells like Kitty Litter.

After taking a six hour nap, all one-hundred of us went out to dinner at a local eatery. Food consisted of apetizers, bife (prounounced bee-fay, meaning steak), and papas fritas (french fries). I think I could get used to the food in this city.

In general, I would say my few short hours here have been one big struggle with life umteen miles south of the Mason Dixon. This keyboard, for one, is driving me crazy, cars have the right-of-way, not pedestrians, everyone drinks with lunch (a plus), I can hardly communicate with other people (not a big deal), I have hidden my money in nine different places and can only remember two, I got interrogated at Customs regarding my T-shirts and what I was planning to do with them (what kind of question is that?), and I have no idea where I am at all times.

Let’s all join together in prayer that I can make it out alive.

Hasta luego,