The things you learn (Part 1 of --)

I came to Argentina intent on breaking through the Spanish language barrier as quickly as possible. I set a two-week goal, giving myself about one ye old fortnight to learn how to fill the span between 'hola' and 'chau.' I arrived with about 20 hours of Spanish instruction under my belt, plus 9 years of French practice (helpful for its grammatical symmetry), 18 years of LA-living (made the language sound familiar) and a lifetime of Hebrew something-or-other (good for making making friends with traveling Israelis for when all of the above failed).

I was pretty thrilled with how all of this suited me once I arrived in South America. True, the range of topics I could discuss was limited, but I was starting to converse with people the night I arrived in Buenos Aires. In my first few days, most of my speech revolved around 'searching' for some things, 'finding' others, 'remembering' some, and forgetting how to say forget. Conversations were limited to the present tense, but I quickly learned how to cheat my way into the future by always 'going to' do things. Made me seem like a Yankee jet setter, for sure. ('Yankee,' or 'shanky' as it's pronounced here, is the Argentine term for US-American...but that's for a separate, political discussion.)

I've also found that a lot of smiling goes a long way. In those first few days, I managed to buy a cell phone from a shady little store by my hostel, and I got a number to give to those new acquaintances who were so patient with my crickety Castellano (Argentina's signature form of Spanish). I was getting into conversations with friendly store clerks and bank attendants, and learning such important words as 'apartment,' 'place,' and 'no, thank you, i'm just looking.'

It took a couple days to find a legitimate Spanish school, but I finished my two weeks of formal language instruction today. I was very happy with the program overall, and didn't mind that it got me out of my apartment by 8:30 every day (an ungodly hour in a place where many young people don't go to bed until the same time). The classes did a great job of checking my pride in my fledgling ability to communicate, since I quickly learned the errors of my wordy ways. This damper could still be countered, though, if not by any affirmation of my communication skills then by my seeming ability to comouflage myself among porteños through other means: unintentionally, the mullet of a hairstyle that's slowly forming itself around my face fits right in with the coifs of many styling porteños. Touche.

But, of course, I still have a ways to go. I went to see an Argentine indie film today, and I'd have to rate my comprehension of the dialogue at about a 9, on a scale of 1 to 100. The movie made me cry nevertheless, since the words 'drunk,' 'anorexia,' and 'need' permeated the fog of my [mis]understanding. In my defense, none of these words were in the title, and I couldn't have had any idea what it was about before seeing it. Besides, I'm sure the other three people in the theater also teared up.

Nueva Shork is far away

Even before leaving New York, I knew that my South American food tour would be about more than what I could fit in my stomach. At one point I envisioned this blog as a food diary, but quickly realized that writing about three months worth of snacks, meals, and farm-to-plate policy wouldn't be fun for anyone. I may take some time to write about juicy steaks and out-of-this world ice cream, but otherwise you can expect to read more cultural commentary than culinary critique.

That said, I've been in Buenos Aires for two weeks going on two months, and my journal is filled with notes on this city's quirks. I don't care how cramped the transportation system is, there's a certain charm that seeps through. Buses only stop when hailed, and only close their doors once they've hit 20 miles an hour; late-night cabs run red lights, and mid-day subway rides can be tighter than the E train during rush hour.

Vendors and consumers alike squirrel away loose change as if the metal is worth more than the coin. Corner stores will refuse to break a two-peso note, citing a lack of 'monedas,' but then they'll charge 1.50 for a pack of gum. I don't actually know what they would do if I tried to buy anything requiring them to give me change. But I'm quickly becoming a hoarder myself, learning the tricks of the bill-coin trade that will simplify my life in this city.

All in all I'm settling in comfortably. I found an intensive Spanish course (que bueno!) and a fabulous apartment (muy lindo!) with a little dog (Rulote! Did you pee on my floor?! [My Spanish skills are limited.]) Soon enough I'll start posting pictures, but for now I'm off to dinner. It is, after all, almost 10 pm.