Blog Archives

The Incredible Three-Day Return Journey Adventure™

Why, hello!  It’s me again.  Wouldn’t you like to know where I’ve been 😉  Well I’m not going to tell you.  It’s a secret and I know your imaginations are a little more creative and interesting than reality.  Let them run free. Let them dream up situations of my imprisonment by camouflage cerulean underwater aliens who abduct girls named after seasons.  Let them fantasize that I’m really a camouflage alien and had to return to the depths of the sea for my decennial disguise touch-up.  Let them imagine that I have not simply been overwhelmed by my new job and 18 credit course load and my adorable six-month-old puppy (and a few crazy nights…) this semester.

It isn’t really that I haven’t been writing.  I have been writing.  The things I have been writing, however, have not all been nice, pleasurable, enjoyable things to read.  You wouldn’t have liked them.  Not unless you really love negative whiny rants about how life’s been…conditioning me a little more harshly than the uszh.  I don’t think you’d even want to read them if you did.  They’re a little cliché.  Let’s just say that it’s been a tough adjustment for me and be done with it so that this doesn’t turn into yet another rant.  Mmk, sweet.  Alright.  Now, to begin.

You guys haven’t even heard about The Incredible Three-Day Return Journey Adventure™ yet, have you?!  Well, maybe I should tell you all about this Incredible Three-Day Return Journey Adventure™ because it’s much more entertaining than a recount of my most recent weeks battling natural disasters and racing through the rain on my little red motorcycle (I named her Betty.  It’s original.  Go away.)  So, without further ado, then,

The Incredible Three-Day Return Journey Adventure™

Recounted none too concisely by Autumn Standing

So, if you remember, I was sad when I left.  I didn’t want to leave.  Argentina was amazing.  Fantastic.  Stunning.  Marvelous.  Incredible.  Life-changing.  Argentina was hard.  Depressing.  Hopeless.  Somber.  Dismal.  Life-changing.  Argentina was eye-opening.  Shocking.  Unbelievable.  Overwhelming.  Astonishing.  Life-changing.  I really don’t think I can describe it.  It’s just not fair to ask someone to describe an experience like that as a whole and people who do it should stop.  “How was Argentina?” they say with feigned interest.  “F***ing boring.  I sat around and ate this weird caramel stuff a lot while people pretended they couldn’t speak English (aka they’re stupid.)  Got fat.  Came home. Am getting more fat. Not doing that again.”

It’s all I can do lately to keep my alien laser vision from destroying these types of people with my glare.  Don’t ask me how my year abroad was.  Please.  And, as a future reference, you should probably avoid asking me how my regressal to the USA was as well.  Don’t test my willpower.  You don’t wanna see me break.  I don’t want to see me break.

Anyhow, my host family drove me to the airport and helped me carry my bags in.  I was loaded down with a giant suitcase, an even more giant suitcase, my overstuffed backpack, a guitar, and what would be a purse but was stuffed so full with excess accumulated junk that it had to share space on my struggling shoulders as a second backpack.  I was wearing almost the exact same thing I’d arrived in.  That didn’t fool anyone though, it was clear that I’d changed more than any of us could imagine.  My ever-worried host mother took charge and we followed her like the mama duck she was.  We barely caught up with her as she got to check-in and started demanding answers from the poor airline rep lady.  After I checked both suitcases, she gave me a little ticket that told me I got to pay SEVEN HUNDRED AND FORTY NINE PESOS  ($125 USD at the time) for their safe arrival across the bay (my first connection was in Montevideo.)  Seven.  Hundred.  Fifty (almost.)  Apparently, Argentina is so cocky that they just assume Uruguay is an extra appendage of their already sprawling country (get it?).  Eh.  Uruguayan.  Argentine.  Same thing.  That meant that my flight wasn’t considered “international” and they were going to charge me extra for my bags (although, to be honest I had over 100 pounds of shit in those two bags…so maybe they weren’t being TOO irrational…)

But seriously, I was not prepared for that.  I was so overwhelmed with anxiety about coming back though and I had abandoned all of the fight within me.  With me ready to give up, we went to the window and my host mom demanded more answers.  She signaled to me to be quiet, play dumb.  Speaking a flurry of Spanish she whirled her way to a manager who told us that she couldn’t do much, but maybe a discount.  I pretended to sniffle, but my heart wasn’t honestly in it.  I was saving my tears.

The manager ended up comping all of my bags, and, as I shed real tears at the security checkpoint hugging my host family goodbye (I’m seriously getting a little emotional about it now even), my host mom left me with some of the least powerful-women-will-rule-the-world-someday-feminist, most valuable advice I’ve ever gotten, “Cualquier cosa, llorá.”  This roughly translates to, “Whatever happens, cry.”  I would not have survived my trip without this golden advice.  No joke.  No exaggeration.  Fine, maybe a little exaggeration, but not much.

Going through security I was reminded of the warmth of the Argentine people who I miss so much now.  People immediately started handing me Kleenex in line and asking me questions trying to cheer me up.   I know Argentina has a reputation for being superficial but I have yet to meet such a population of genuine people.  I was alone going to my gate though, and I sat down to write in my journal about my fears, anxieties, and also my pure contentment at all that I experienced, a feeling that still subtly surprises me on occasion.  I couldn’t write anything.  I didn’t want to cry again and try to figure out what kinds of tears my eyes were making.  So I just sat there and stared blankly at my journal, pen to paper but no ink.  I stared…and stared…

I’d actually been sitting there a while.  Too long…  I stood up and dressed myself with the guitar, backpack, and former purse and waited some more in what looked like a blob-line forming near the gate.  When I asked someone for the time I grew increasingly nervous to hear my flight was departing in 10 minutes.  As I poured over my tickets for something I must have missed, a time, a gate number, something, I overheard an announcement about my flight.  Last call.  But the line wasn’t even moving!

I did a strange crawl-run to the front of the line under the weight of my bags and asked about my flight.  The lady didn’t even grant me an answer.  She flew into action, picking up the phone and spewing Spanish into the receiver.  South American Tip: Gate numbers on your flight tickets are tentative.  Probably all numbers are tentative.  Nothing is set in stone until it’s had time to fossilize, accumulate millennia of sediment and return to the surface via tectonic force.  TIA.  I had to ditch my flip-flops and run through Jorge Newberry airport with fifty pounds of gear, my guitar twanging slightly with every leap.

When I arrived they smiled lackadaisically, sent me down an escalator, and moseyed me onto a creaky bus already more full than the midmorning 152 on Santa Fe.  It was departure time.  Then it was five minutes after departure time.  Then it was fifteen minutes after departure time.  Then and only then, did the bus engine drudge into life and drag us along through the dark mist of the night towards our plane.  I knew I wasn’t going to make it.  See, I’m an idiot.  I thought I was so clever.  I saved $300 USD going through several different airlines and creating all of my connections on my own.  Autumn the travel expert.  My itinerary was as follows:

Buenos Aires, Argentina–>Montevideo, Uruguay:  Aerolineas Argentinas

45 minutes layover

Montevideo, Uruguay–>Miami, Florida: American Airlines

1 hour, 20 minutes layover

Miami, Florida Atlanta, Georgia–>Denver, Colorado: Delta Airlines

Hooray!  I rock for building badass itineraries and being a super saver.  FAIL.

In Uruguay, they do consider Argentina a foreign country (surprise!) so yes, you’re required to pass through customs and declare things and all that jazz.  I was doomed before I even got on the plane.  I should have given myself more time.  Dumbass.  To make things worse, as I was trying to curb the tears brought on by leaving and my nerves about missing my flights, I was sitting next to a gem.  I have seriously never thought that these people actually exist outside of novels and exaggerated portrayals I’ve seen in movies, but there she was, in the flesh, sitting right next to me.  A hybrid person.  A cross between the most hyperactive Labrador retriever you’ve ever met, a nearly electrocuted hummingbird, and a human being.  She was what would happen if every single thought in our heads were audible—an explosion of ideas, noise, movement, chaos.  Like if you boiled down every single smell in the city and put them in an enclosed bedroom, then placed someone in the middle and asked them to describe how they felt.  Instead of words coming out when that person opens their mouth, she would come out.  She didn’t come with a warning sign.  She didn’t need to.  I’m convinced that it would be impossible to not notice her if she was sitting next to you even if you were in a coma (potential cure? Or death wish? More on this: never.)

Well, clearly I survived her.  I don’t like to be mean, she wasn’t an awful person really.  It’s just that, if there were ever a moment in which I really wanted to be alone with my thoughts, look out on the lights of Buenos Aires and say goodbye in silence, it was now.  Tough luck.  This chick would not shut up.  She was from Washington and was thrilled about finding a fellow Statian.  Apparently she had decided that the US had become frighteningly corrupt, that our way of life was pure devilry and we were all doomed.  She’d sold her entire life (she was about 35) and was going around South America to explore potential cities to grow roots in.  Normally I could have mustered up some enthusiasm and humored her with a conversation (not that it was very two-sided anyhow)…but I just wasn’t in the mood.  Even with only minimal polite response from me she was satisfied to keep babbling.  I could feel my stiff skin under the dried tears on my cheeks and fresh wet ones trying to make their way out but her constant assault of chatter caged them in and held them prisoner.  Thankfully the flight was only an hour or so.  I basically ran away from the flight attendants trying to welcome me to Uruguay and had to consciously keep my heart from beating through my rib cage waiting for my bags.  I grabbed one of those cart things (which are free in South America), put my life’s possessions inside and shoved it as fast as I could towards customs.

The security officer told me I should make my flight no problem but it only offered me slight relief.  I still headed straight to the info desk when they let me free.  The lady did not look hopeful, picked up the phone and told me that I had missed it.  The plane was still on the ground, but they had made last call a minute ago and were closing the gates.  I begged, I pleaded.  But she just shook her head.

So I cried.

Maybe it’s shameful.  Maybe I should feel guilty, but I was exasperated.  Tears came much easier than they had in front of the last airport’s help desk.  She told me I’d have to wait until the next flight left from that airport at 9 PM the following day (It was around 8:45 PM.)  I managed to get out that I didn’t have anywhere to go between sobs and she finally told me that two girls from American Airlines would meet me upstairs and talk to me.  I trudged through the empty airport still clinging to a sliver of hope that maybe they were going to wait for me.  I hadn’t stopped sobbing.

The upstairs check-in was fluorescently bright and deserted except for two janitors who tried to hide the pity from their faces while they mopped around the empty queues.  As I was waiting, and because I was already hiccuping through tears, I decided to read the letters and look at the pictures my family and friends had given me.  I hadn’t had time on the plane because of Pollywantacracker.  They broke my heart.  I was officially between two worlds and I didn’t want to give either up.  The janitors had mopped their way up to me as I was finishing the last letter and asked me if I was ok.  I told them about trying to get home and having to leave my other one.  They told me that American Airlines were really nice and would probably set me up in a hotel room and help me with anything I needed.  That’s not what I wanted though.  See, my entire US family was waiting at home (the Colorado one) for me.  My brothers had flown in from their respective homes, I was going to see my niece and nephew; even my cousins, aunt and uncle were going to be there.  That is really rare for my family and I didn’t want to miss a second of it.

I felt like I waited ages but finally the two girls from American Airlines caught up with me.  They were around my age.  They listened to me, realized that I was pretty much at fault (although I had insurance on my ticket, they weren’t responsible for another airline’s delay and even if it weren’t delayed I would have probably missed that connection.)  It was looking to be about $600 USD to change my flight and there was only one per day at 9 PM going to the USA because they were a small airport/airline.  I was desperate.  I cried a lot and they were very patient with me.  Both of them were amazing.  They soothed me and told me not to worry, that they’d figure something out and help me as best they could.  I did not want to pay for a hotel and was a little freaked out being stranded in an unknown country at night.  One girl let me use her phone to call my mom and let her know that I was ok, just marooned in Uruguay with $6 USD in my pocket.  No big deal.  She shouldn’t be worried or anything.  One of the American Airlines girls even mentioned paying for a hotel room for me herself but I wouldn’t have accepted.

Eventually, they worked it out that I could stay in the lobby where pilots stay in between connections on occasion.  There were couches, TV, free coffee, bathrooms, etc.  I was cozy and comfortable but I slept fitfully.  I woke up on the red pleather couch at eight AM feeling like I had slept off a bad cold.  I couldn’t sleep anymore though and well…free coffee.  Good thing I had all that practice sleeping in plazas, bus stations, hard hostel beds, tents, hammocks, even sitting up.  First things first, I used the free Wi-Fi to post pathetic Facebook statuses (and talk to all of my concerned family around the world; Otto was particularly supportive and surprised that I’d yet to break my electronics), bought a cereal bar, drank some coffee, and started to wonder how I was going to spend the next eleven hours.  I had to surrender to the reality of the situation.  I was not going to get home today.  So I chose to look at the bright side.  Free night in Montevideo, Uruguay and one last chance to explore a new city before I went home.

I decided to woman up and not waste my day.  I looked up a map of the city and found some sites I thought might be cool to visit (I didn’t end up making it to any of them really though haha.)  I went and asked the front desk how to get to town and they explained the bus system to me and exchanged Uruguayos for my dollars.  They looked extremely skeptical and I could tell they were a bit concerned about my plans to go gallivanting around the city on my own but, determined, I loaded my purse with the essentials: thermos, mate, rain jacket, camera and my $3 remaining, and set off into the main airport.  I stopped by the tourist office, grabbed a map and asked for suggestions on where to go before I left just to reassure myself that I was a totally capable adult tourist and such.  I was actually excited as I pumped up the volume on my music and stepped out into the overcast day in Uruguay.

The bus arrived in ten minutes and I confirmed with the driver the route I was planning on taking.  I followed our route along the tourist map and debarked about an hour (30 km/19 miles) later in the heart of the city.  I made my way to a big plaza and sat and stared at some statues for a while.  It was a chilly day so I decided to go get some hot water and make use of the mate I’d brought.

I stopped at a little kiosco and the lady happily filled my thermos for free.  She talked to me while the water was heating about how she’d had a thermos just like that one to bring to work with her, same color even!, but that it had broken after only two months so she’d opted to get a jet-broil contraption.  She was very chatty and happy and only contributed to my sense of optimism about the day.  I also bought some cookies from her to go with my mate.  She wished me suerte as I left and warned me once more about the thermos (although it’s still in good working condition…)

I pulled out my map and navigated to a more secluded, smaller plaza where I sat on a bench, made my mate and stared at some more statues thinking about the strangeness of life.  It didn’t seem like the city had many residents.  It was largely empty despite being a Saturday.  I hardly saw anyone at all except for a few Asian tourists.  That was ok though, I was reveling in the peace and quiet and really enjoying being by myself.  It was a new feeling to me knowing that I didn’t know a single soul (the American Airlines girls don’t really count) for hundreds of miles.  I felt grown up and independent.  Self-sufficient.

After plenty of statue-staring and self-reflection, I walked down a nearly deserted street market to a building that was like an indoor food fair.  The place was the size of a super Walmart with fifteen or twenty different restaurants just randomly slewn across the warehouse floor.  There were no walls, tables just set up around the collapsible bar areas for each restaurant.  Imagine a crowded indoor mall with no walls and mingling smells of delicious food filling the air around you.  It was full of laughing customers, buzzing waiters, conversational friends, energetic, happy children and a complete contrast from the gray peaceful day I’d walked in from.  I felt like Dorothy when she walks out of her house into Oz and everything’s in color.

In a way, I feel like this whole experience was a kind of cumulative test of all of the skills and things I’d learned abroad.  I mean, really, imagine how I would have reacted a year ago to all of this.  I didn’t know Spanish, how to navigate an airport, a city, how to find the good in such a strange situation and be spontaneous enough to go with the flow.  I was shy around new things then, I wouldn’t have asked for help, known how to rely on my fellow human beings.  The entire scene would have been completely different.

I dove into the sensory chaos that was the food fair and began my search for something vegetarian I could get with the remaining Uruguayos in my pocket.  Navigating my way through the maze of crowds and tables I kind of felt as if I’d shrunk.  Like I was looking up at everybody, kind of like a little kid lost in a mall but I wasn’t looking for my mother.  I felt totally comfortable.  I parked myself on a tall bar stool at one of the mobile bars and ordered a cheese and onion quesadilla.  It was delicious but not much of a meal and I felt unhealthy so on my way back I bought an apple from a colorful old man at a fruit stand.  He smiled a lot and even washed my apple for me before sending me on my way.

During the twenty block walk back to the bus stop I saw very few people.  There was a group of young guys playing soccer a ways away, which I tried to discreetly film before their ball came flying my way and blew my cover.  I meekly tried to kick it back and seem nonchalant but my total lack of athletic skill made me blush.  The guy who came and grabbed the ball winked and smiled at me before booting it back to the game.  I only had to wait ten minutes for the bus after I arrived at the stop.  I realized it was the only running vehicle I’d seen during my whole walk!  The city seemed totally deserted today but it was exactly the atmosphere I’d needed.  I had a few more cups of mate on the bus looking out at the passing landscape but feeling introspective. I even managed a five-minute nap before we arrived at the airport right on time.

The girls met me in the lobby about an hour later with worry lines on their faces.  They had not expected me to venture into the city and they looked like relieved mothers even though we were around the same age.  I definitely felt a strong older sibling vibe from them and it made me adore them all the more.  They handed me a ticket and I winced prematurely asking them how much it would be.  Their dimples crushed the worry lines as they told me they’d convinced American Airlines to comp my ticket (although I still have a feeling they might have paid some.)  They even got two of my bags checked for me.  I couldn’t believe how generous these two had been and I felt so blessed.  I had them write their emails and information in my journal and promised them two big jars of Nutella upon my return (I don’t think they quite understood that Nutella was more of a European thing but I would have done everything in my power to bring them a star from the sky if that was their request.)

They personally accompanied me to the boarding gate as if I might somehow manage to screw things up again (don’t worry, I’d already missed my flight from Miami to Denver…) and they hugged me goodbye.  I felt really close to them somehow and sad to be leaving so soon after everything that we’d been through together in the last 24 hours.  The plane ride was uneventful.  I slept mostly and spent the rest of the time not looking forward to dealing with Delta Airlines while savoring my remaining few nibbles of the last alfajor I would have for a year.  I started to get excited to see my family again but I knew that because of my delays everyone wouldn’t be at the airport like I’d imagined.  No running hugs L  I tried to pace myself with the daydreams so that I wouldn’t disappointed at the gate but it was hard.

I didn’t pee once on the airplane.  This is totally relevant because I had downed three bottles of water on the plane and two of those complimentary orange juices and it was the only thing I could focus on when I got off in Miami.  For some bizarre reason the people who make international airports don’t herd you directly towards the toilets right when you exit their planes.  They should really just include directions to the restrooms in their spiel about what the local time is and all that.  It is ten times more important in my opinion.  And it would have been highly useful because, for some reason.  I got my bags in record time (bathroom break should have occurred before this!!!) and then suddenly I had over 100 pounds worth of luggage to attend to.  I was drained and I honestly could not carry all of it.  I felt ready to burst. Even though the two suitcases had rollers, they were too big and bulky to balance behind me with the guitar and the giant backpack + overstuffed purse on my back.  I could barely reach around those things to reach the handles.  Walking was another endeavor entirely.  Hunched under all that awkward weight I couldn’t make it more than two steps without my coat starting to slip off my waist or my guitar banging up against the corner of the bigger suitcase.  My bladder hurt and I couldn’t even get away from the luggage carousel.  People were buzzing around it like flies around a light bulb claiming their treasures and I felt totally overwhelmed in the middle of it.  I couldn’t move.  I reluctantly left my luggage there and ran towards the carts where any spirit I had left dissipated.  SmartCarts were $5 USD.  I had twenty Uruguayos left.  I just stared at the little box asking for my dollar bills and tried to hold the lump in my throat.  I cheated and left my luggage unattended long enough to pee.  I couldn’t handle it.  I didn’t even care if anyone stole my things or if the whole airport went into lockdown because my guitar might have nitroglycerin in it or something.  It didn’t though.

The bathroom was like my locker room at halftime.  I gave myself a pep talk (yes, audibly, because I needed it that much.  No, it’s not weird at all) and Rocky Balboa marched back to my luggage.  The physical space it took up was just plain bigger than I was.  I think I expected someone to see me standing next to it and offer to help…but none came.  When I finally got in line to go through customs there were about sixty people in front of me.  I ended up sandwiched between two Arab business-looking middle-aged men and what looked like a whole high school of Brazilians with lime green shirts snapping pictures of each other and falando Português.  They seemed so happy and my spirit wavered.  The pep talk wasn’t a very solid foundation to be balancing all this STUFF on.  When the line moved, it moved one person at a time and eventually I just shrugged everything off my back into a messy pile on the ground.  Every five people it moved I would make three, yes three, trips dragging my various bags up the spots in line.  We stood there twenty minutes and not once did anyone help me.  One of the guys behind me carrying nothing but a briefcase picked up my jacket and handed it to me when I finally made it to the top of the line.  For some reason I wanted to slap him.  He was just handing me my jacket but I had absolutely no way of grabbing it.  Every single slot I had for holding something was occupied with the job and I wasn’t about to grab it from him with my mouth.  So I had to set everything down and re-suit up.  It was ridiculous.  There were security guards walking around, people managing the line and they all just stared at me blankly with nothing in their hands as I struggled to limp to the window in one single drive.

I’m glad the customs officer stuck to the basic dialogue because if I’d said more than three consecutive words I would have cried.  I found solace on a bench in the main terminal and made a fortress with my things.  With one foot touching them I tried to stretch to the nearest airport employee and get his attention like a beached whale.  I asked where Delta was and felt awkward as his English words hit me.  It felt like I was in a foreign country.  I was more stranded here than in Uruguay.  Delta was in G.  I was in A.  I could faintly make out B down the corridor over 200 meters away.  This was going to be impossible.  People were coming and going all around me in every which direction.  The sounds they were making sounded so much sharper and abrasive than the flowing Spanish I’d grown accustomed to over the past year.  I slumped down and briefly contemplated crying again but I didn’t want to use up the last of my luck before talking to Delta.  Instead I took a deep breath and propped myself up with resolution again.  I cased the area.  There was an abandoned cart six benches down just outside the automatic doors.  It tantalizingly flashed and glimmered in the sunlight.  I had to have it.

I took off my flip-flop, purposefully left my luggage unattended and made for the door.  I looked suspiciously around before darting through the automatic door, smoothly dropping my flip-flop into place to keep it from shutting and curling my fingers around the bar of the cart.  As I stepped back through the door with my new prize I got a few weird looks from travelers but I had escaped the security radar.  Piling my things into the cart I made the trek over to Delta airlines at “G”.  No one talked to me while I was in line as I tried to mentally script out what I was going to say to the representative when I got up there.  I told him everything as rehearsed about The Incredible Three-Day Return Journey Adventure™ and tried to look sad, which was really easy but totally lost against his shield of a scowl.  He told me that it would be $1300 for a ticket from Miami to Denver, even though I had missed my flight because of a connection.  I begged, I pleaded.  But he just kept repeating the same thing.

Finally, he told me that if I wasn’t going to purchase a ticket then I’d need to move on because other people were waiting.  I knew it was time to bring out the water guns and it was coming easier to me with all this practice.  His face didn’t change.  He was stoic as ever but instead of shooing me away he wrote a number on a card and told me they might be able to get me a 20% discount or so.  I was freaking out.  Surely there was some way but I trudged away with my cart and my tears to the payphone across from the masses in line.  People stared at me because I was crying.  They had looks of pity but just kept on staring.  Luckily I was able to find two quarters in my wallet and, luckily, that was worth one phone call.  I fed the payphone and picked up the receiver.  It ate them.  Both quarters.  Hungrily.  And then it asked for more.  I couldn’t believe it.  Those were my last two quarters! I didn’t have a US phone.  I was totally helpless now, almost angry with the way that I had been treated here (or not been treated.)  I felt cold even as the Miami heat blasted in through the automatic doors as more people came in to leave.

I literally put my face in my hands and slunk to the floor.  Those fifty cents were somehow the biggest loss I’d experienced.  I was so unhappy, sad, and upset in that moment I can’t even describe it.  Yes, I was being dramatic, but I had felt a change in my atmosphere from the moment I’d stepped off the plane onto US soil and it wasn’t opportunity.  No one was going to enable me here.  People had things to do, places to be, money to make.  I wasn’t being independent and self-sufficient in Uruguay!  I’d gotten through because of the genuine kindness and heart of the people there.  I had never been alone in South America.  Not truly.  Everyone was rooting for me.  Everyone cared.  It wasn’t like that here.  You don’t get a free pass just because you’re a pathetic foreign girl who can muster up a few tears.  I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that truly alone and ignored.  It was absolute disheartedness.  But then!  A glint of silver caught my eye on the ground! Was that?  Yes.  A quarter.  A single quarter.  Now I understand the expression, “Life can turn on a dime.”  But this was a quarter.  Fifteen MORE cents than a dime.  It was tails but I’d take it.

Even now writing this, I am almost ashamed of how I was reacting over losing my fifty cents in the payphone, pounding the coins back button with the heel of my hand like it was the only thing that could save me.  You have to understand the unmitigated amount of emotion that had flowed through me in the past 48 hours.  I was a mess.  Unfit to deal with a situation like losing my last 50 cents.  I scoured my bags.  Emptied my backpack and in the depths of the depths I found one nickel, two pennies, and two of those life-turning dimes.  This time I fully read the directions on how to use the payphone and, of course, kept my distance from the hungry deceitful one I’d used before.  Turns out, you can dial 1-800 numbers for free anyways and I ended up getting my money back after the phone call.  I was in hysterics after it shot me my money back and people stared for a different reason this time.

Apparently the universe was not against me quite yet.  When I called the number and punched in all of the menu options (that had, of course, recently changed….), it gave me my flight information and a code to print out my ticket… it didn’t sound right and I was a bit confused so I navigated through ten minutes of menu to talk to a real person.  He told me my ticket had been successfully changed at no charge.  My tears had worked!  And this time they’d saved me $1300!  I was leaving at three pm today to finally go to Denver!  If that wasn’t the world’s most dynamic emotional rollercoaster (besides maybe “Story of an Hour”) I was about to lose my remaining 52 cents.

So…what to do with the six hours left until my flight?  I think I had satisfied my thirst for adventure and quickly ruled out exploring Miami…not that I could leave my luggage unattended anyhow.  I got all dressed up in the bathroom and was painting my nails on these weird Y-benches in the airport when I suddenly woke up on the floor.  Yup.  I woke up.  I didn’t fall asleep.  My body literally just shut down mid-fingernail.  Luckily I didn’t spill any on my dress in my narcoleptic lapse but it definitely was a wake-up call (pun intended.)  I decided that checking my luggage would be safer and coughed up the $60 bucks to check them before roaming through security and falling asleep outside my gate.  I would have one connection in Atlanta still but I wouldn’t even involve getting off the plane.

I charged my computer and napped a little outside the gate but only when I was 152% positive that my plane would indeed be leaving from that one and not any other one and I was exactly where I needed to be, bladder empty, ready to go.  Even though I planned on continuing my nap once on board I ended up sitting next to another lady.  Only this time she was pleasant and even remarkable.  She was the type of woman who tries to retire but simply can’t because she’s too interesting and restless.  She was a Myers-Briggs proctor and industrial psychologist.  We talked about life a little and the big transitions we were both going through.  She was an ISTJ (Introversion Sensing Thinking Judging); I am an ENFP (Extraversion iNtuitive Feeling Perceiving, the complete opposite.)  We talked about the strengths and meanings of all eight of the personality characteristics and it was the perfect conversation I could be having on my journey home.  It was really relevant to my other journey, the personal one, you know, about discovering myself? and time flew by (I’m just pumping out the puns today, huh?)  She was only going as far as Atlanta though and we were so engrossed in conversation that I nearly forgot to ask her name as she left.  I can’t remember it now and it isn’t in my journal. L

I touched down in Denver at around five in the evening, the summer sun still proudly shining over the Colorado mountains.  I was oddly numb to all thoughts and emotions.  I smiled at the beautiful scenery but didn’t feel home.  I didn’t feel much of anything except exhaustion and I didn’t want to.  I remember having the most basic of thoughts, which was a conscious decision.  I was too drained to feel anything right then and I reinforced the dam in my mind against that whirlwind of emotion I should have been feeling as I mindlessly stepped off the escalator and scanned the crowd for my mother.  She wasn’t there, even though I’d messaged her the flight details.  I made my way down to baggage claim, allowing little cracks in the dam as I methodically stacked my luggage next to the carousel.  No mommy.

After fifteen minutes as the last few passengers trickled out, the dam was breaking.  I felt like crying again, but I didn’t.  I thought I hadn’t allowed myself to picture the running hugs and cheesy airport reunions, but apparently I had and this wasn’t it.  I finally went to the lost luggage office and borrowed the phone.  I called my mom.  No answer.  I called my brother.  No answer.  I called my other brother.  Nothing.  I called my brother again.  Voicemail.  The receptionist told me to make sure I was entering an area code.  Yes, I was entering an area code.  My heart tried to console me with stories about how maybe they were trying to surprise me, that hands would suddenly cover my eyes with my brother’s voice, “Guess who?” playfully echoing behind me.  I even turned around just in case but they weren’t there.  I waited a few more minutes and stared at the clock before trying my mom again.  She answered and told me to go outside.

I feel guilty now about how I felt in that moment but I was angry and upset.  I stood outside on the sidewalk in my dress and heels with all my bags for a full five minutes before she drove by, backed up, and parked, getting out of the car to give me a big hug.  It wasn’t a running hug.  We hugged for a long time before she helped me get my bags in the trunk with my dog.  Sanchez didn’t remember me really.  He was, of course, happy to see me, but it wasn’t a spectacular reunion and somehow I felt disappointed by that too.  I tried to mentally argue myself out of being unhappy but I felt tears coming again.  I think I was just so emotional by everything that I didn’t know what else to do.  I didn’t cry though and I kept up my smile.  My oldest brother, Cody, had already gone back to the hotel with his girlfriend and my niece and nephew.  I’d see them tomorrow.  And Ryan, my other older brother had gone to stay with his girlfriend in Fort Collins for the night.  It would be just me and my mom in Loveland tonight.

I know it’s selfish of me but I couldn’t help feeling hurt.  I guess my homecoming was such a big deal to me that I expected everyone to build their schedules around it even though I’d been delayed by two days.  I didn’t want to have this night colored by how frazzled I was though and I, once again, hit the emotional override and decided to be happy and relax.  I pushed all of those thoughts and emotions into a mental compartment marked “Junk to be dealt with after recharging” and began to recount The Incredible Three-Day Return Journey Adventure™ of the last three days to my mom on the car ride home almost robotically.  I was home after all.

Why have I not written here in ages?

Because it will somehow force me to face the fact that I’m leaving very very soon and decide how I feel about that.  I don’t want to.  So there.  It’s like an essay I have to write for class or something and I just don’t wanna do it.

I’ve had a headache for like three days straight and I know it’s because I don’t want to think.  All those thoughts are buzzing around and breeding more thoughts and more thoughts and they want attention.  When I refuse to give it to them they bite me.  It’s quite vicious.  I’m only trying to protect myself from feeling.  Not fair.  Anyhow, I’m still planning on ignoring them for a while. So instead of writing my typical novel of a blog, I’m going to make Autumn-of-the-past write this blog and share a silly little questionnaire I filled out before leaving the United States of America for the very first (and only) time.  Sort of nerdy but very interesting to look back at 🙂 Then I’ll pick a picture from each month (July through July) to share with you all.  So, without further ado:  Oh and don’t forget to listen to the song below while you’re reading/looking at pictures so that you get the full nostalgia intended:

What are the five things that you are most looking forward to about studying abroad?

  1. I want the newness and the excitement of seeing a different culture—fun and something different!
  2. Traveling, since I’ve never been out of the US I wanna get cool stories about visiting other places and pictures!
  3. Friends—making some awesome new Argentinean and international friends, starting over with a fresh slate
  4. Dancing and going out.  The night life.
  5. Learning Spanish super well—duh.

What are the five things that currently worry you most about going overseas?

  1.  For some reason this list seems easier to make 😦 Missing my friends and family
  2.  The seeming superficialness of the country and being perceived as fat ugly and gross J
  3.  Money
  4. Money
  5. K that last one was cheap so I’ll write six but personal safety when I’m traveling perhaps over the summer
  6. Being able to keep up with classes

 What are the five things you believe you will miss most from home when you are abroad?

  1. My mommy
  2. Family and Friends
  3. Sanchez and Dio
  4. Having my own living space—living with a host family is gonna be a big change…
  5. Internet Connection speeds here
  6. My stuff lol like I’ve accumulated things I really like and enjoy that make me happy that I can’t take with me.
  7. The mountains and dry climate
  8. Maybe I’ll learn how to count in Argentina too…

What are the five things (people, places, activities, etc.) you believe you will miss least  from home when you are abroad?

  1. High prices! (lol I hope)
  2. Drinking laws
  3. Time scheduling shit—the “mañana syndrome” as the culture book called it I think I will like that better actually
  4. My evil Spanish professor and having a history.  It’s gonna be nice to start fresh (sorta)
  5. My smartphone:?  This could go either way…I am gonna miss it but will it be a good thing to not have such a sturdy leash?  Yeah 🙂  I hope that I’m gonna gain a lot of independence through this trip.

My greatest single challenge overseas will be:

I think it’ll be missing my family and friends—my support network.  I’ve always had a problem with missing out on stuff and I’m really worried about that.  I think it will probably be the hardest thing I go through.  I’m comfortable with Spanish, making new friends, being open-minded, etc but not with not being able to see people.

And there you have it.  That was how I felt about a week before leaving the US.  Not really earth shatteringly different than the truth of the situation but it will provide some healthy reflection for me whenever I decide to actually acknowledge the fact that a year has passed and this wasn’t a dream.  I shall follow with pictures:
July 2012:

Dork, you’re wearing snow boots…

August 2012:

September 2012:

Argentines are weird…

October 2012:2012-10-17_17-50-54_411

–At Ciudad Universitaria, Universidad de Buenos Aires

November 2012:

December 2012:


Move.  NO don’t move.  No, move!

January 2013:


With Cicada in Coroico, Bolivia

February 2013:IMG_3190

Still always going to be my favorite picture from carnaval

March 2013:


April 2013:


Yes, this is a photoshopped picture for my journalism class, but both of the pictures are mine.  Taken in Iruya, Argentina.

May 2013:


With Nacho in Pinamar, Argentina

June 2013:


July 2013:


Sorry I know it’s a crappy phone picture, but I love it 🙂

Till next time, y’all 🙂

Palta Rice

So I’m sitting here at the computer trying to think of how I am going to summarize my New Year’s in San Marcos Sierras, Cordoba.  Do I just tell it like a timeline of events?  Just share a few highlights of those two days?  Only pictures?  I feel like the 31st of December and the 1st of January were some of the most eventful days of my trip over the summer, although every day brought new and wonderful (or, in some cases, difficult) experiences.  I really don’t know how to write about them.  Yes, part of that es porque tomé mucho alcohol…but you know…

I may leave some of the good parts out, but here is my attempt to summarize my time in San Marcos through words and pictures, which hardly do it justice.  Upon arrival, we followed Roci and Oli down the dirt road around the cute plaza and up a quaint hill to the “camping,” or camp ground, where we’d be staying.  We saw no one except the people who got off the bus with us (who were few), and the town was in a state of peaceful quiet that I felt like I hadn’t heard at this time of day since Colorado.  It really was a beautiful day, the sunlight pooling and rippling throughout the plaza.


It was a toasty climb up the dirt hill to the campground, about 10 blocks from the bus station (which was about the width of the entire town, if that), but totally worth it when we arrived at the adorable campground.  I feel like a nerd saying this, but it reminded me of some place in the woods where fairies would live.  A glen, I suppose.  There was a little gurgling creek with overly sized bridges connecting the resilient tufts of  grass on its banks.  Large trees canopied the lots, which were only at about half capacity with tents.  In the middle, there was a large house painted with swirling designs and illustrations in vibrant colors.  An old man greeted us and introduced himself.  Roci and Oli pretty much handled the entire conversation, asking about prices and where we could pitch tents.  They told Maxi and I that we could borrow their extra tent for the time being, but Maxi still set up his hammock anyways. He preferred it.  We found a spot behind the house by the teeny little bathroom and a pile of rusty-looking junk.  My dumpster-diver curiosity getting the best of me, I went and checked it out but there wasn’t much to salvage—the chipped top to an old washer, a shoe that looked right out of a storybook fisherman’s lake, some scrap metal, an empty bag of chips crumpled in a ball, some empty bottles of Quilmes, etc.

Clearly if I continue to be this detailed I’m never going to finish, so here are some pictures of the campground, courtesy of Maxi:

P1110493 P1110499 P1110502

We didn’t get any pictures of the little creek or the main part of the campground, but you can get the idea 🙂  I think my favorite part were the showers, simply because it had been nearly a week since I’d washed properly.

Anyways, after we set up the tent, I scraped off a week of sweat and dirt in the shower then went with the girls to get some food for dinner while Maxi took his turn.  Oli studies medicine at Universidad de Buenos Aires (UBA, the free public university)  and Roci was double majoring in acting and directing/cinema.  They both lived mere blocks from me back home in Buenos Aires!  It was nice to talk to some other females for once and take a break from Max.  We actually got along quite well but he was beginning to get on my nerves as it had pretty much just been us two for the entire first week.  I’m sure I wasn’t the most pleasant company after that long either.

It was looking like it would rain when we got back to camp, so we moved everything important inside the tents and I moved on to enjoy the next luxury I had missed in the last week—electricity!  I charged my camera, my phone, Maxi’s laptop, everything.  Then we uploaded pictures to Facebook and let everyone know that we’d yet to be slain by an axe murderer.  Afterwards, I went down to the plaza with Roci and Oli to drink te re re (cold mate with orange juice) and we ran into the whole group from last night.  It was about 4 PM but they’d already emptied a healthy number of cartons of wine.  It was New Year’s Eve after all!

Their group seemed to have grown yet bigger, now including a couple of men in their late 30s/early 40s who seemed like maybe they’d gotten a bit too early of a start on the day’s drinking and kept trying to speak Portuguese to me (Practicamos para carnaval!)  Someone had hollowed out a cantaloupe, written 2013 on it and presented it as the community flagon for the wine.  It did feel a bit classier than drinking straight from the carton.  I passed on the first few rounds though and stuck with mate.  The last few days had worn me out!

photo 2

We spent most of the time talking with Nico about his time in Japan trying to get dual citizenship and the cultural difficulties of growing up as a Japanese-Argentine with Japanese parents.  By some crazy coincidence Roci’s ex-boyfriend turned out to be in town, so she and Oli went to say hi.  Eventually, we all got kicked out of the plaza by the police (at 5 PM.)  We weren’t being rowdy and the cops were nice about it, we were just a big group of youngsters pre-celebrating the New Year and they saw it as a volatile situation.  We retreated to the river and continued the festivities.  I texted Maxi, but I guess his phone was in airplane mode so I couldn’t get a hold of him 😦

photo 5(2)

^^The group at the river

At the river I talked with John for a really long time about how traveling changes you.  Some of the kids in the group with us had been on the road since before they turned fourteen and had seen things some people wouldn’t even dream to see and some things no one should ever have to see.  It was the first conversation of many that I would have about the monumental changes that I was going through—that we were all going through.  Through the conversation with John I began to really understand myself and my own morphing philosophies about the world.

I am not going to explain the entire conversation, because it was long and I can’t do it justice online, but we spoke much of the innate connection among all of us despite language, cultural, and physical barriers.  A smile is universal.  Bancame un toque (bear with me a second) and then I’ll put fortune-cookie Autumn away, promise.

photo 1(2)

^^Cool face we made while chilling by the river

I became infected with a certain magic during my trip that still sloshes through my bloodstream, pumps through my four chambers and races all the way to my fingertips every second.  It influences my ideas, actions, words, everything.  If you read my last post, then you know about Maxi and I’s phrase: We are always lucky.  It was through this cycle of positive thinking that good things kept happening, that we stayed safe, and that we met amazing people.  If there’s anything I learned from my trip, it is that, despite life’s challenges, perseverance and optimism will always make things ok in the end.  Life is much bigger than the hardships we face and we will always struggle to grasp just how massive the bigger picture is.

photo 4

^^John and I by the river

The second major theme of my trip that John and I discussed, and that I’m still astounded at daily is nearly impossible to explain as well.  To try and properly explain this I have to tell you about a super cliché graduation speech I heard in 2009.  It was the graduation of my boyfriend at the time.  High school sweetheart.  First love.  All that fun stuff.  Anyways, I’d arrived late and was trying really hard not to be awkward with his entire extended family who I was convinced didn’t like me.  Needless to say I was a little distracted from the ceremony…

If I remember right, the teacher was my ex-boyfriend’s track coach or something and he really admired him so I made my best effort to listen at least to that part.  The speech was cliché in almost every way—the cheesy anecdote intro paired with the loaded question about which fish you want to be in the pond followed by a brief inspirational biography and an attempt to wrap it all up on both a witty and uplifting note.  I vaguely remember being much more concerned about reapplying my lip gloss for the pictures and whether or not he would like the sappy picture collage I’d framed for his graduation gift.  Never would I have realized how much I’d identify with that speech in later years.  The speaker spoke about a concept he had come to find as the main propeller in his life—a concept he’d termed “coincidance.” “Coincidance” was his explanation of how little coincidences occurred in life almost like they were planned in a sort of choreographed dance.  To my 16-year-old self, that was just cheesy and extra fluff to the rest of the graduation speech, but the more time I spend here in Argentina, and especially as I traveled, the more I recognized these “coincidances.”  Some of the things that have happened to me still seem so surreal.  You’ll see as I continue the memoir of my summer.

photo 5(1) - Copy

^^Bryan and I by the river

Anyways, it started to drizzle a little and we all decided we better cook something before nightfall, so we headed back to camp.  For dinner, Maxi and I made “palta rice”, which soon became our favorite meal of the trip.  Palta is Spanish for avocado and while I wasn’t a huge fan of avocadoes, I certainly became one.  Max shared his love of avocadoes with me and I’m totally hooked now.  We’d mix two or three soft avocadoes with tomato in a pot of rice and add some soy sauce.  It sounds like an awkward mix but it was delightful.  We paired it with some bread and mutually agreed that the meal was a success—YUMMMM x UH-FFINITY.


^^Cool metal T-rex in San Marcos Sierras

Going to continue this later, I’m hungry now 😉

Chau chauBesos!

101 Things About Argentina: Part IV The Last Part!!!!

So…I am supposed to be at Migraciones right now freezing my ass off and waiting in line to get my visa.  I even woke up at 6:30 AM after 5 hours of poor sleep to go and renounce my illegal immigrant status (which is how I currently roll…) but of course, TIA.  Argentina is still not quite sure if I’m a criminal and they have yet to tell me their final decision on that.  They promised me they’d decide in 5 days (which should have been 4 days ago…) but apparently I’m still being reviewed and I should check back later.  Maybe I shouldn’t have jaywalked that one time.

It’s wildly unfair because the caffeine of my morning Nescafe has already began to block adenosine receptors in my brain and organs, slowing down my cellular activity and stimulating my nerve cells to release epinephrine.  This hormone, better known as adrenaline, is now increasing my heart rate, my blood pressure, and blood flow to my muscles, which control my fingers as I type.   These symptoms are contradictory to sleep.  If you’re experiencing something similar this morning I’ll  leave you this dandy final addition to my mini-series of little things that remind me I’m not in the USA to enjoy 🙂 Don’t forget to check out the first, second, and third parts first.

76.  Open any girl’s purse in the USA (if you dare) and you’re 80% guaranteed to find at least one tube of lip gloss.  I’m not sure many of my Argentine girl friends have even heard of the stuff and I’ve yet to see anything but lipstick or chap stick on the shelves in Farmacity here.  I’ve concluded that, while it can probably be found somewhere in china town, along with bacon flavored jam and soy whale liver, Argentina’s lips remain largely unglossed.

77.  Argentine ice cream was churned and cooled (or whatever magic they do to make ice cream) in heaven.


78.  There is a shortage of change here so everyone is stingy with their monedas.  Stores usually round up a few cents when handing you your change back, so that’s nice, but they’ll almost always ask you, “¿Tenés cincuenta centavos?”  (Do you have fifty cents?) and grumble when you apologize for being coinless.  Olvidate if you only carry around cien pesos.

79.  This kind of goes with the last one but because the stores try and hoard coins they’ll ask you if you want to donate 17 centavos, or however much is easy to round off your bill to, to the Starving Fireman’s International Ice Cream Fund.   Or the like.

80.  If you’ve never heard of the things before, you might think that Argentines go to the bathroom in pairs.  It’s a myth.  There’s just this crazy-weird butt-rinsing machine next to the toilet that they copy-catted from France.  It’s called a bidet.


81.  Books are really expensive here because of import taxes and other factors (see #64)–text books included.  Apparently copyright laws are only suggestions though because you’ll get most of your university texts as photocopies in a bookstore.  They’ve found cute little loopholes through the copyright laws but what’s the big deal if they blatantly disregard them too?  Shhh…don’t tell.


^^My management textbook, which is a compilation of select chapters and articles from other books (loophole)

82.  I am often shocked by the influence of English here.  Everyone says it’s the “universal language” (maybe that’s why we don’t seem too interested in teaching other languages in the USA) and many prioritize the teaching and learning of it.  Many English words have made their way into everyday Argentine speak as well.  For example, when I used to say that I was studying Business Marketing here, I would simply say “marketing.”  I took a class called “Fundamentos de Marketing” and we talked all about what “marketing” was, etc.  To market something would often be referred to as “hacer marketing de un producto“–literally, to do marketing of a product….

83. Water and plastic utensils are not free: let me diverge for a moment to tell you my spoon story.

So I bought a bunch of food from a chino for lunch one day–some chips, the makings for a sandwich, and a yogurt–and brought it back to the university to eat in peace and pretend to catch up on my reading for Social Movements (we already know how that worked out…)  I sat down outside the cafeteria (you aren’t allowed to go in unless you buy something…bah humbug…) and set everything out in front of me like I used to in Elementary school all proud and excited at the prospect of filling my tummy, when I realized I didn’t have a spoon with which to eat my yogurt.  In Elementary school that wouldn’t have mattered.  I’d eaten my fair share of liquidy substances with the foil tops of their containers to the awe and admiration of my tablemates.  Having no spoon couldn’t stop me back in the day!!!   But, realizing that a woman of 20 years should probably be a bit more sophisticated and use utensils, I entered the treacherous environment that is the cafeteria and tip-toed to the line where they sometimes buy things.  After I spent a sufficient enough time looking like I’d bought something, I went over to a different counter to ask for a spoon.

–“¿Tenés una cuchara, por favor?” Do you have a spoon please?

–“¿Emmm…compraste algo?”  Did you buy something?  You could see the suspicion in the cook´s eyes right away, like a dog who thinks he’s heard his master’s car in the driveway, instantly on alert.

–“Uhh…¿qué?…¿tenés una cucharita?”  Umm…huh?…do you have a little spoon?

–“¿Compraste algo? ¿Qué compraste?” Did you buy something? What did you buy?

–(Realizing he would not part with his plastic spoons without my buying something and not really wanting to have to use my foil spoon method, I spoke in my most beautifulest yankee-est accent): “YO-guuur, sí, compro YO-guuuurrrr.  ¿Tenés coochawwruh?”  YO-gurt, yes, I buy YO-gurt.  Do you have spoon? For emphasis I make a shoveling motion into my mouth.

–“Y lo compraste acá?” And you bought it here?

–Tilting my head sideways slightly like a little baby bird, “¿Coochawruh?” Spoon? More shoveling motions, this time more desperately and faster—if there were real yogurt on my imaginary spoon it would be all over the stingy cook’s floor.

There is a pregnant pause as the cook gives me a judgmental, unsure look.  Then he tentatively grabs the blessed plastic spoon from a tray full of them.  He starts handing it to me but snatches it back and gives me another doubtful inspection.  I return his gaze with my best feigned innocence and puppy eyes—it’s more effective because technically I didn’t lie about anything.  I did buy yogurt, just not from his overpriced, monopolistic university cafe.  And I do want a spoon.

After a little more language volleying in which I expertly imitated a stupid gringa, he eventually parts with it.  I slide out of the cafeteria with my new plastic spoon clutched tight against my chest like Gollum and the ring, hop away to my stash outside the door of the cafeteria, gather my reserves in the chino plastic bag, and take the stairs two at a time to settle two floors up and eat in peace with my stolen spoon.  Nothing is free, and I swear he gave me a dirty look the next time I went in the cafeteria that same week with a friend and had magically-improved Spanish ten levels.  I keep the spoon in my purse now, just in case I am left without one again.

84.  Most people here seem to think that we curse like sailors in the USA.  Personally, I think they curse like sailors.  Probably, sailors don’t even curse that much.

85.  As if to prove the last point, I constantly see clothing, as I am forced to window shop daily walking down my street, that cracks me up.  I highly doubt that these types of displays would last anywhere in Fort Collins, or even bigger cities in the USA.  Besides the picture below, I have quite recently seen a flowy tank top bejeweled with the F-word, and a Black T-shirt proclaiming that “God is the new black”…whatever that means.


86.  If you watched my first video way back in August, you will have seen my elevator here.  Most elevators are like that one, tiny little things with two doors that you have to pull shut.  I loved them then and still do now.  I’m not meaning to be demeaning when I say that they make me feel like I’m in the 20’s.  They actually are pretty sweet, I’m serious.

87.  Probably just a city thing but you have to buzz up to someone’s apartment here.  I had a buzzer back in Fort Collins but only because my apartments were seriously weird.  I know it’s not that common, at least in Foco, but here EVERYONE has them, even if they live in a house.  It’s like a doorbell but it makes an delightfully awful buzzing noise.  Then the people in the apartment pick up a little telephone and talk to you downstairs.


88.  Security is a major concern here.  Upon hearing your voice through the telephone in the above point, it is very unlikely that your friend’s will just buzz you up (press the button that unlocks the door.)  They will instead make a point of coming down to get you just to make sure you aren’t a thief in disguise or something, I don’t know.  Video cameras are also common, as is changing the locks when you lose your keys (which I have done twice 😦 )  I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, I’m just not used to it coming from a place where it’s not a big deal if you forget to lock your doors.

89.  This picture:


90.  This is hard to explain but the idea of what types of foods make you fat is different here.  In the USA, when we diet, the first thing that we commonly “unfriend” is sugar.  Here, the idea that “sugar doesn’t make you fat” is quite common.  Instead, greasy and salty foods do (although they eat both regularly 🙂 )

91.  Portion sizes at restaurants.  I mean, where do I even begin?!  My first week I was constantly starving, partly because I was burning so many more calories than usual with all the newness and lack of sleep, but also because Statians just eat HUGE portions and Argentines don’t.  I think if I got a Qdoba burrito today I wouldn’t know what to do with it.  I would be so excited that I’d dive right in but feel full to the brim after half of it.  I could eat a burrito the size of my head back in the day before I came to Argentina.  Now I’ve learned that humans really don’t need all that much at once…

92.  I am going to miss the Fourth of July this year but it’s ok because we got fireworks on Christmas 😛  With the seasons being switched, Christmas is during the summer, which is just plain strange…

93.  Coupled with mayonnaise obsession is the mysterious salsa golf.  It’s basically just mayonnaise and ketchup mixed together.  At first, I was revolted but now I won’t dip my french fries in anything else.


94.  Clothes dryers and dishwashers are rare, but garbage disposals are non-existent.  I have yet to see one in my eleven months here in Argentina.  I am now sure that garbage disposals were one of the greatest inventions of all time and I just don’t understand whyyyyy they aren’t in all Argentine sinks?  I get so grossed out pulling all of the nasty food chunks from the bottom of the sink after washing the dishes and transferring them to the garbage, and then you have to take out the garbage because it gets all stinky and nasty.  Garbage disposals are beautiful pieces of art to me now and luxuries one can only dream of.  APPRECIATE THEM!

95.  It is common to weigh your produce separately at a grocery store and get a sticker on it before checking out.

96.  When you walk into a party you are typically expected to greet everyone with a kiss on the cheek.  When you leave, you go through the same routine.  When you see a friend on the street, in the hallway, or are meeting them for coffee, another kiss.  When you meet someone for the first time, etc.  I love it though, I think I’m going to feel like everyone thinks I smell when I go back to the USA and people don’t kiss me hello and goodbye.

97.  Inflation is so bad in Argentina that it is one of the only countries that will sell a 2013 car for more pesos at the end of the year than at the beginning.  This phenomenon has led to the “blue” market value of the US dollar, which keeps me from going over budget here.

98.  In Tigre, a community just outside of Buenos Aires where the roads are made of water, there are lancha (boat) colectivos, taxis, and even police and trash services!


99.  While the toilet water doesn’t flush the other way, there are weird looking flushers here.  Usually, there’s a little button on the side of the toilet, but sometimes you have to pull a string.  The standard Statian type of flushers are rare.

100.  [Insert something about tango or psychology (read my post Psychoanalyze This) here]

ANDDDD 101.  When people think of South America, they generally conjure images of tropical rainforests, tribes of natives playing the drums, and maybe Machu Picchu.  Argentina does have some tropical areas, but it is, in reality, a huge country that spans mountains, jungle, desert, and even arctic cold temperatures and glaciers.

arg1 arg2 arg3 arg4 arg5 arg6 arg7arg8

Not to be continued because I’m getting bored of these posts :P…

101 Things About Argentina: Part III

This is the third (of four) parts of my list of 101 things about Argentina.  Read the first and second parts before if you want.  There’s not much of an order to them but anyhow… Enjoy 🙂

51.  Fall (Autumn ❤ ) lasts for months here!!!  It’s incredible when compared to the couple of blissful weeks we get in Colorado before the harsh winter sets in.  I love it.


52.  It’s uncommon for a 20-year-old student to be living on their own.  Kids live with their parents for many years after colegio (high school) usually.

53.  No Thanksgiving 😦  Sometimes I forget that’s a strictly Statian holiday… Click here to read about my Thanksgiving in Argentina.

54.  Feriados (Argentine days off) are more common than owls at Hogwarts.  I remember reading an article in the local newspaper last semester that claimed that government workers in Argentina technically only work 4 days a week because of the profound amount of feriados and their two weeks of mandatory paid vacation.  Read this for a better understanding of just how many holidays there are.

55.  If you didn’t know, I have a severe addiction to greasy, buttery, slimy, good ol’ ‘Murican movie popcorn.  You know, the kind where you leave the movie theater feeling like your throat has been lined with plasticwrap?  Mmmm irresistible.  Well, that doesn’t exist here.  The most popular option at the movie theater is kettle corn.  Kettle corn.  KETTLE.  CORN.  Don’t ask me how I I find the strength to wake up in the morning in a country that prefers kettle corn.  I may not if they didn’t have dulce de leche.

popcorn buckets 001

56.  Apparently there’s a whole different kind of deck of cards that I didn’t even know existed–Spanish cards.  Our “regular” version of cards here are called “poker cards” but they’re actually less common than the other kind which are used to play truco among other games.  I’m still struggling to get an idea of which suits are which and their values and such.  My whole world shattered pretty much once people told me the suits were coins, cups, clubs (as in the type of weapon, clubs, not the clover-looking ones), and swords.


57.  Music in English is apparently a single genre of music–at least according to some radio stations here.  One station playing at a party I went to with my host brother sounded like I threw my mom’s, brother’s, six-year-old niece’s, and philosophy teacher’s music libraries onto my hard drive and threw it on shuffle.  Rap=rock=pop=classical=reggae=metal=>English ( => means “if” in math…)

58.  30° conjures up images of icicles and snow in below freezing temperatures to me, but to an Argentine it’s the peak of summer. (Farenheit4Life!)

59.  There’s this incredible invention of a fourth meal in between lunch and dinner–called merienda, or tea time.  I’m waiting for them to come out with an after midnight one.

60.  The Simpsons.  Everyone here is enthralled.  I don’t know if they’ve ever been so popular in the states.  Ever.  Argentines love them.


61.  It’s actually very uncommon to shave here, everyone waxes.  It’s much much cheaper to do so than in the states, so I can understand the appeal, especially with the warmer weather and more time to expose legs and so on.  I’m a fan, but there’s no way I could afford to keep it up in the USA.  It’s more expensive to shave here though, plus the razor options are limited to crappy disposable gas station equipment…nothing like Intuition or Schick Quattro with replaceable heads and all that fancy dance.

62.  It’s not so bad in the capital of Buenos Aires, but the more rural areas of Argentina are full of street dogs.  Some are clearly diseased or have bugs and are “hecho de mierda” as they say here; some are adorable and cuddle-able and sweet; all of them I want to adopt and love and care for. 😦


^^Ciruela spent the night keeping me warm in Maxi’s hammock  in Simoca, Tucuman, Argentina and shared breakfast with us in the morning.  I seriously considered taking her with us.


^^Me getting a hug on New Year’s from the most adorable attendee.  I miss my dogs.

63.  A regular Argentine “horario“:  8 AM–Breakfast/wake up, 9 AM–Start of workday, 1 PM–Lunch time, 5-6 PM–Tea time, 6 PM–Post Office and official-seeming businesses close, 8 PM–Closing for most shops and stores, 9 or 10 PM–Din din, 11 PM–After dinner coffee/postre/tea, 12 AM–Think about pre-gaming/going out, 3 AM–Go to the club, 7 AM–Get early McDonald’s/Get home from club.  Sleep?  What’s that?

64.  Libraries here are primarily academic.  Not every little kid can get excited about getting a library card (Pagemaster nostalgia) because you can’t usually check things out either.  It’s not like back in the US where you can check out The Hulk on DVD, Dirty Dancing on VHS, Ke$ha’s new album, a couple of audio books and a paperback sappy romance novel.  Those things cost money, which is why Argentina is world-famous for it’s second-hand book fairs and markets.  After working in Interlibrary Loan for two years though, I realize that not even a badass book fair beats free.

65.  In general, people here are much more aware of politics and their role in government.  Maybe it’s because of their recent tumultuous past, maybe it’s because voting is obligatory (not voting is punishable with fines and such), but either way people  seem to take much more of an interest in what’s going on around them.  Again, this is just my opinion based on observations.

^^I took this video of the cacerolazo (cacerola means pan and people flood the streets banging on pans and marching to the Casa Rosada to protest the government, hence, cacerolazo) on the 8th of November of last year.

66.  Grades are not given as A, B, C, D. and F.  Instead you get a number 1-10.  Four or above is passing and 10 is really really hard to achieve (theoretically), probably the equivalent of AAA+++, at least in my experience.  Grading practices and philosophies are much different altogether.

67.  Naturally, being on the opposite hemisphere switches the seasons.  This means that it’s summer in November and my name makes no sense.  Why would I be named Autumn if I were born in summer???  Nada que ver

68.  The majority of  broadcasted television is originally in English and can either be dubbed or subtitled.  It’s kind of adorable when you hear the names of Statian shows in a Spanish accent.  It does hinder my Spanish language learning though when I can watch TV in English all the time.

^^La beeg bangh theeeuhrreee.  Somos…Warner!

69.  If you understand much Spanish you may have noticed in that last clip that they use military time here for most things.  If you wonder why, read #63 and think about what it would mean if you said to a friend you wanted to meet at “three”…

70.  People speak Spanish.  Alright.  That is kind of a dumb and obvious difference, but it still surprises me to this day–especially little kids speaking Spanish.  It’s so adorable and strange and boggles my mind to think about growing up speaking something other than what I grew up speaking.  This is very difficult to explain.  I give up.

71.  Most everything you buy here, from your groceries to a new computer can be paid for through a series of cuotas, or quotes.  It’s actually really cool and I would so use it all the time except you have to use a credit card to do so.  In the end I would never end up saving money because of extravagant international card usage fees.


72.    When I first printed a paper for class here it looked like I was trying to cheat by setting my margins to 2 or 3 inches. I wasn’t though.  It’s because they use a different paper size here.  It’s bigger, so a five page paper here is actually 5 3/4on regular-size letter paper.


^^It doesn’t look like much but it adds up.

73.  For Girls:  There’s no applicators on tampons here.  In fact, tampons are really not that popular.  I was/am shocked.  Weird.


^^Really not a very tasteful tampon-brand name….

74.  Deodorant is also weird and different.  It doesn’t usually come in the traditional stick you rub on.  There are some that are like liquid roll-on but the most popular are the sprays.  It’s hard for me to understand how this is effective but people here smell nice in general so I guess it is…


75.  Coca-Cola is incredibly popular.  I call it Argentine water simply because they drink it like I would drink water.  If you’re in a restaurant asking for water is very rare.  This may be because there’s no such thing as free water–see spoon story in my next post (#83)–but I still find it incredibly strange.  They even give this magical Coca-Cola to little kids who drink it like Kool-Aid.

Picture of me 5

To be continued (one last time…)

101 Things About Argentina: Part II

This is a continuation of Part I of my list of things about Argentina.  Start there if you haven’t read it yet by clicking on the link 🙂 So, without further ado:

26.  You put your picture, gender, race, age, and marital status on your resume (curriculum); if you don’t, employers might think you’re hiding something.

27.  Shoe store right next to a fruit/veggie stand right next to an apartment complex—not weird.


28.  Someone casually lights a cigarette in the school cafeteria, right next to the “Prohibido Fumar” sign; no one casts a second glance.

29.  You panic about a big group project the teacher assigned.  No one starts talking about it until the night before it’s due, and nobody does a single bit of work until the morning of.  The presentation is bound to crash and burn, but the teacher forgets there was any homework at all.  Two weeks later, he remembers, but forgets again the next class period.  If you’re interested for future reference, this is a potential method you should consider if you’d like me to die of a heart attack someday. <–This might just be Universidad Belgrano…still investigating.

30.  Pigeons are more common than ants on a spilled Slurpee. They’re impossibly uglier too.


32.  You think you must have something in your teeth if you get through the day  all the way to the bus stop in the morning without at least six or seven comments of “princesa“, “linda chica“, or “Te acampaño o te persigo?

Actually, my favorite piropo (these types of comments/pick-up lines) happened to me a couple of weekends ago while I was standing at a bus stop with my friend Marianita outside the city center in Olivos.  A little truck with three or four guys, all in their mid-twenties or thirties pulled across the road and into the wrong lane and rolled down their window.  “Perdón chicas, pero estoy media perdido,” said the driver (Sorry girls but I’m a little lost), “Me pueden decir como llegar a tus corazónes?” Could you tell me how to get to your hearts?  Then he drove away with a wink.  I was left a little bit confused, my naive mind calculating how to get to the center of the city exactly from where we were.  It clicked within a matter of seconds though and both Marianita and I coughed a little from the cheesiness of it all.  I don’t necessarily like the piropos, though.

Most are harmless enough and the guys in the truck made me smile at least, but sometimes they’re just gross and disgusting.  I don’t think it’s common to have this happen to you, but last Tuesday I was walking by myself on Santa Fe coming back from the gym at around 10 PM (still dinner-time-ish) and a young guy around my age followed me for about a block asking for a kiss and actually grabbed me. I whirled around telling him to go away in more explicit language and raised my arm when he got close to me again…  The streets were strangely empty but a watching doorman pulled him away from me, made sure I was ok and told me to continue before I got a chance to slap the jerk harassing me.  I shouldn’t have spoken English to tell him to go away, but the words that come out of my mouth in those situations aren’t necessarily well thought out.  He’d effectively pissed me off though.  Anyhow, I don’t think it’s a really common experience to have and the guy seemed drugged or drunk :/

33.  You’re a shark and seats on the bus are the minnows.

34.  You have a separate bag for your mate supplies and a mental map of refill stations throughout the day so you don’t run out of hot water (or at least for some Argentines.)

35.  By the end of the day your purse is full of ads for learning English, painting your baby’s bedroom, pizza delivery, and various other promos you were too polite to refuse on your five block walk home.

36.  Empanadas, dulce de leche, and medialunas all have their own food groups, here’s my personal food pyramid:


37.  Two pieces of bread with jam and a single half mug of Nescafe fills you up like a regular meal used to in the United States.

38.  A little girl comes up to you in a restaurant where you and your amigos are morfando una pizza and asks you for a slice.  She won’t leave until you oblige, and then she goes outside and eats it in front of the window.  She’s not homeless or anything (she’s wearing a private school uniform…), only craving pizza and feeling bold.

39.  Pizza is delicious (as proved the little girl in #38), but delicious in Argentina for a more gourmet reason than the United States (still miss my Papa John’s Special Garlic Dipping Sauce: aka butter mixed with a bit of cream and powdered garlic for use on already artery-hostile pizza.)


40.  Someone puts a pair of socks on your lap on the colectivo with tape across them spelling out “ADDIDAS.”  He follows with a presentation involving tying the socks to the bus seats and comically stretching them as far as possible to prove that they are sturdy before emphatically announcing that they are offered for a limited time and ONLY FIFTEEN PESOS FOR NOT ONE, BUT TWO, that’s TWO durable pairs!!!

41.  Red lights outside of the city center are just suggestions.

42.  Almost all of the cars are manuals.  For this reason the lights go from green–yellow–red–yellow–green.


43.  It no longer surprises me  when my bus driver gets road rage, slamming on the brakes and calling a fellow driver an “hijo de puta” with a characteristically Italian shake of the fist.

44.  Mayonnaise obsession.  Seriously, a whole aisle in the grocery store is devoted to mayonnaise.  Since ranch dressing is virtually nonexistant, guess what the choice topping for salads here is?  Not kidding.  I used to think this was weird and gross.  Now I don’t know what a meal is like without mayonnaise.


45.  I may have mentioned this before but milk is usually purchased in bags like the ones below.  Yes, they do have cartons (although they’re square and weird), but I’ve yet to see a typical plastic bottle or translucent jug like the ones so common to the USA.


46.  When I order a whiskey/7Up I don’t get 7Up with whiskey, I get whiskey with a couple shots of 7Up.  Sometimes they give me the can too just in case I want to dilute my drink after the first shocking sips.

47.  You have to light the oven and the stove with matches, a task which took me many fortnights to master.  I still fear lighting the pilot light on the oven, actually….

^^Our box of matches next to the oven/stove

48.  The doormen water the sidewalks early in the morning  just in case the grass decides to peek through the cement surface one day.  These porteros will be there to tenderly care for such growth when it comes, I’m sure.  Maybe it’s a city thing, or maybe it’s a preemptive strike against the dog poop that is seeming to invade the city, qué sé yo

49.  Everyday one plays a life-size version of Minesweeper walking along the streets of Buenos Aires.  Ironically, the parks seem to be eerily clear of feces, but the same cannot be said of the sidewalks.  Walking in heels is quite the feat among the cracked, uneven tiles with the occasional sneaky bomb of dog poo that make up Buenos Aires’ sidewalks.    I guess when you’re a dog walker with 20 dogs in tow you might find it a bit tedious to bag it ALLLLLL (see #5.)

50.  Electronics are insanely expensive because of import taxes.  I bought my Droid Razr (which got stolen a few weeks ago 😦 ) in February of 2012.  It came out sometime in 2011 I think.  Right now in the US, you can get one brand new without a contract for about $200 (free with a contract.)  This one pictured here is the equivalent of $520 WITH a new or renewed contract.  I hate to think of what it would be unlocked!



To be continued…

101 Things About Argentina (or wherever it is): Part I

A lot of you often ask me about what’s different about living here in Buenos Aires from Fort Collins, CO, USA.   This blog is going to be the selective results of a cumulative list I’ve been making in my notebook.  (The length got out of hand so I’m going to publish them in 4 parts.) Some are things that give my dimples a reason to appear , some are just crazy things I’ve seen/heard, even more are little differences about my daily life, the rest are just a mezcla of all of these things 🙂  They all sum up to pure awesome though and reasons that the last 10+ months have raced by.  So here it is:

101 Things About Argentina/the city/plain old differences From a Yanqui Perspective (In a totally disorganized order) Part I:

1.  “Qué sé yo…”  Ok so I have several favorite phrases but this one is definitely top ten. (What do I know…) Argentines use it in place of a shrug or sometimes just as a filler phrase–kind of like the way we say “like.”  Kind of…qué sé yo…

2.  When you’re 20 minutes late to class but don’t have a single worry because you’ll probably still get there before the professor.

3.  Dogs are often better dressed than I am:dog shirt

4.   A dog wearing a rain jacket (Ok seriously, I wish I had time to snap a picture but I didn’t…I was too busy trying to get to shelter.  Stupid dog looked dry as a Colorado summer though.)Dograinjacket
<<Only the dog was impossibly uglier (no offense intended, but I’m still pretty bitter…)

5.  Twenty (that’s 20) dogs being walked by one talented person.  That’s the record that I’ve seen anyways.  It’s usually anywhere from 10-15.IMG_0813

6.  “Ojo, ojo, cuidado, cuidado

Picture of me 5 (2)

7.  When random people on the streets hear me speaking English (shame on me!), they sometimes high five me.  I didn’t realize actually how often this has been happening to me until a couple of days ago when I was walking down Pueyrredon with Sol and she found it strange that a random man tried to high five me and I ignored him.  She gave me a weird look and asked if I knew him; she probably still thinks that we have some long complicated history and he’s gone into my non-existent pile of “your-dead-to-me”‘s.  If any of you know how much I love high fives, just beware that I’m still going to be slap happy when I come back, no matter how many random strangers sacrifice their hands to me in the spirit of Statian stereotypes.

8.  <– This is the number of grocery stores within three blocks of me. 🙂 Win.

^^Disco gives you cool coupons that I will probably never use but make me feel like I’m saving money.  (My favorites are two kilos of ice cream for the price of one!)  It’s two blocks from my house 🙂

9.  Traffic on the city streets is almost entirely made up of colectivos y taxis.  This is on Santa Fe, a few blocks from my house.


10.  Hailing the colectivo was particularly difficult to me at first.  Now, of course, it comes naturally but I felt like an ungrateful, rude b***h doing it ten months ago.

11.  Pedestrians don’t have the right of way.  You will get run over.  Do not pass the curb.  Do not collect $200 pesos.

12.  You can buy a nice bottle of wine cheaper than a less-than-quality beer.  I have nothing outright against Quilmes or any of the common cheap beers, I’ve just been spoiled by Fort Collins microbrews.


^^Maxi, Lena, Pato, and Nico drinking the appropriately named “Norte” brand of beer during our trip through the north of Argentina

13.  Save your beer bottles!  Two prices are listed at the grocery store for beers–the cheaper is only attainable if you brought your old beer bottle back in 😉 Hooray for recycling!

14.  You buy some of your groceries at a Chino, some at the supermercado of your choice, some at a fruit/vegetable stand, and I suppose if you eat meat, the rest at the butcher shop.  Probably all of it is delivered to your doorstep.

15.  Although I don’t smoke marijuana nor am I in a cult, every time I drink mate with Argentine friends I feel like I’m a part of a ritualistic ceremony involving the complicated preparation and consumption of drugs.


^^I look like a total dork in this picture but whatever.

16.  You might lose friends, offend family members of friends, or even potentially get shanked for wearing the wrong soccer jersey in the wrong place at the wrong time.

17.  You’re ushered to your seat at the movie theater and usually expected to tip him 50 centavos or so…that’s about 15 cents less than your grandmother used to stingily give you for mowing the lawn (a quarter…)

18.  I like the spanish version of this song better.  Plus Aladdin has an adorable Spanish accent, and I’m pretty darn proud of myself for being able to notice it.  I wouldn’t have been able to tell any different accents when I got here.  Now I have a good handle on Spanish, Argentine/Urugayan, Colombian, Mexican, and Chilean.  The others are coming.

19.  There are very few taboo subjects; everybody poops I guess.

20.  The club is dead before 2 AM

21.  Strangely named food products that make me laugh:


22.  It’s uncommon to give birthday cards, but birthday letters…at least from what I’ve seen.

23.  Common terms of endearment include: gorda (fatty), negra or negrita (black or little black one), and flaca (skinny)

24.  It totally makes sense that flower stands also sell Oriental trinkets and incense.  You hardly ever see one without the other in the city.


25.  A typical McDonald’s hamburger costs $10–and yes, that’s AFTER converting it from pesos to dollars.  The Big Mac is the only regularly, for Mickey D’s anyways, priced thing on the menu, but only because of the BMI (Big Mac Index dictates all Big Macs around the world should be equal in price, no matter the country or currency.)

To be continued…

Liebster Award

LiebsterAward_3lilapplesI was super pumped when I found out I’d been nominated for a Liebster Award by The Tipsy Nomads.  I had no idea what it was, I just lit up at the word “Award.”  After I stopped running laps around the house and cheering, I looked up what the award actually was with this handy page.

The Rules

  • Answer the 11 questions from the person who nominated you
  • Nominate 11 new bloggers and ask them 11 questions
  • Share 11 random facts about yourself

Because The Tipsy Nomads is a blog about drinks around the world, their questions for me were naturally about drinking 🙂  Please read my >>Disclaimer<< before you start freaking out that I’m a crazy drunkard.

11 Questions From the Person Who Nominated Me:

1.  What is the most money you have ever spent in one night, just on drinks and where was it and what were you drinking?

This is going to be a tough one.  I am really cheap so when I go out I try not to spend that much money.  That doesn’t mean I don’t drink though…  The most I’ve ever spent in one night has been for a party I’m throwing—probably Dad’s (Natalie’s) 20th birthday party.  I planned on everyone paying me back…but that just didn’t happen.Image  I spent a lot on my goodbye party too—1/2 keg of Sunshine Wheat from New Belgium Brewery, three bottles of vodka for my classic cranberry punch, bottle of tequila, 40-rack of crappy beer, bottle of whisky, and I think something girly, like Malibu.  Probably around $300 total.  I have incredible luck though.  The nights where I drink the best I tend to spend the least.  Strange.  Drinking more=being richer?  Should test this hypothesis. 😉

<<Jello Shots I made for the party

2.  What is your favourite alcoholic drink?

ImageTough.  So many to choose from…In the USA it was a 7&7 (whiskey and 7-up) and my favorite shot was a dirty girl scout or grapefruit vodka with chocolate chips.  Here I have become incredibly fond of fernet and coke.  Nothing can deter me from a good wheat beer made in Fort Collins though 😉


>>(At right)  Me and one of my best friends, Nick, getting a beer sampler on Saint Patrick’s day at Fort Collins Brewery

3.  What was the cheapest drink you have ever tried and where was it and what did it taste like?

Besides free?  Haha 😉  In the USA: Sundance Bar & Saloon…a whiskey-something (whiskey water probably…I’m not sure but it came from a tap) for 25ȼ.  Here in Argentina: The Alamo’s beer.  No one knows what it is but it gives you a horrendous hangover and makes you do crazy things.  With you and a friend’s entrance plus 5 pesos (about $1) you can get four liters of the stuff.  Yes, four (4) liters for $1.


4. Give us your funniest drinking story. 

That’s going to be a difficult one to choose…This one took place in Fort Collins.  It was my freshman year.  I was dating this guy whose roommate threw excellent parties in their house (apparently he wasn’t so great about clean-up, but luckily I didn’t live there.)  He’d always have a theme and this one was “Adventure.”  You were supposed to dress up as your favorite adventurer or somehow conform to the theme, so, naturally, my friends and I went all out.  I was Xena the Warrior Princess and I’d made my costume myself.  I’d even hot glued golden ribbons directly onto my ankles (apparently I kept proudly telling everyone this throughout the night…)

Image^^Not my most flattering picture but a bit too much of a foreshadow for the night…

When we entered the party, we were relatively early.  My boyfriend wasn’t there yet, but he told us he’d left us some Arbor Mist (carbonated wine stuff) in the fridge.  We got started slowly but felt kind of uncomfortable as more and more people arrived in regular clothing.  I wasn’t ashamed of my costume—it was awesome as you can see—but it was clear we’d put a little more effort into these costumes than everyone else.  My boyfriend called me and asked what we wanted him to pick up for us on his way to the party and my friend requested this stuff called “Hot Damn!”  It’s the bargain brand of cinnamon schnapps.  I’d had it once before and, still being a beginner drinker, it was girly and smooth enough for me to handle.

He arrived with the liquor and we took a shot to celebrate.  Then I took another shot with a friend who we didn’t know we had in common.  Then a couple more friends got there and we all took a shot together.  Then I took a shot with my best friend.  Then I took a shot with a random guy who was waiting in line for the bathroom because he said my costume was “awesome.”  At that point I realized that this Hot Damn!  wasn’t the same kind I’d had before….it was 100 proof.  All of this plus two other drinks in the course of an hour…and the scene was set.


Cut to: Us in the basement, young sweaty college kids packed in tight, playing pool and beer pong and swinging on the decorative “adventure vines”.  Loud music but not too loud to talk.  Suddenly my best friend’s jaw drops.

“Oh my gawd!” she says, “I know that girl.  She worked at the Texas Roadhouse!”

Now, my best friend used to be a hostess at the Texas Roadhouse and let me tell y’all how much she hated it: A WHOLE DARN LOT.  It wasn’t necessarily a horrible job but all of the girls were really mean to her.  She’d been driven to finally quit her job about a month before the party and hadn’t seen any of the girls since.

“Where?”  I sway as I attempt to stand on my tip toes and get a better view.

“There, in the black, with the black hair talking to that one girl.  See her?  She has her back to us.  [Insert expletive here] I can’t believe she’s here!”

“Was she a bitch?”  I ask bluntly.

“Well, yeah…they all were.”

“Imma go talkto’er,” I declare, and start marching over.  My friend grabs me by the shoulder.

“Autumn!  No!  Don’t start anything, she doesn’t even know we’re here…it could,” she pauses, “I don’t know, it could mess up my recommendation from there or something.”

“Don’t worry,” I assure her, “I’m just gonna talk to‘er realquick.”  And I march off again.


I think I really had just intended to talk to this girl…but in the few meter’s walk I must have changed my mind because I only said two words.  I just stood there glaring at the back of her head until she turned around, confused.  Then I delivered my two words with my fist, “Hey bitch.”

Not my classiest moment for sure…and it gets worse.  I had fallen down after my fist made contact and she’d dragged me up by my hair.  I think it would have hurt much worse if I’d had all of my senses, but I was pummeling her with my hands and kicking like a blind cat dipped in water.  Our friends broke us apart before we got rowdier.

Cut to: The girl and I are in the backyard screaming at each other and struggling against the friends who are holding us back from tearing each other apart.  A circle has formed of at least thirty people screaming, “GIRL FIGHT!” I am determined to defend my friend’s honor at whatever cost.  People are streaming out of the house trying to see what’s going on when I elbow my friend in the ribs and she loses her grip on me.  Sacrifices, I guess.

I must have really been in character.  I don’t know what exactly went through my mind but my hand dropped to my left hip and drew my plastic sword dramatically.  Gripping it tightly with both hands I let out a frightening drunk battle cry as I ran at her and shoved the gray plastic into her throat.  The plastic wasn’t substantial enough to do any harm and, from the accounts of my friends, made the whole scene comical and anti-climactic.  I didn’t do much more than annoy her and get her rambling about how stupid freshman are.

Cut to: Me sitting on my boyfriend’s bed, my shield and sword safely out of my reach and all of my closest friends pledging their support and telling me that I was not out of my mind.  I wanted nothing more than to put my armor back on and attack, but they told me the guys of the house were handling it.


Many other things happened that night.  In the morning I had the worst hangover that I’ve ever had in my life.  Two days later, when I noticed silly string on the front lawn, I was devastated that I’d missed the silly string fight…apparently I started it.  Who knows what other shenanigans I got into…but I was surrounded by my closest friends who I know kept me (sort of) under control.

The girl, who my friends and I now refer to as TXRH bitch, was not actually that mean to my best friend.  I feel bad that I attacked her so viciously and suddenly.  She did not even know who I was.  I don’t think I did either (except Xena.)  It turned out that she was dating the next door neighbor and we had a lot in common actually, but it led to a slight rivalry between the two houses over the next year.  Shame on me.

Sometimes people will see me at a party and remember me as Xena, even though I swear I’ve never met them.  The smell of cinnamon still makes me uneasy, and I haven’t gotten in a fight since that night.  I hope to keep it that way.  The next time I might be totally unarmed.

So I’m only going to share that story but I wrote another post about a particularly crazy night I had in Brazil during Carnaval.  You can read it here.

5.  What is your best hangover cure/routine?

Water.  Food.  Vitamins.  When I’m planning an irresponsible night I try to lessen the blow to my liver by downing a glass of water for every shot/drink I have.  This is surprisingly effective.  The best offense is a good defense 😉  I just deleted about two paragraphs of inappropriate jokes…sorry, but I can’t afford to deteriorate my image further during this post.

ANYHOW, if I do end up feeling not so fortunate the morning after an eventful night, I have to eat.  I maintain that Qdoba breakfast burritos can cure any hangover of mine.  I sure do miss those.

6.  What is your all-time favourite drinking song?

Blackout—Breathe Carolina

7.  Where in the world is your favourite drinking spot?

On any roof, beach, or around any campfire.  Ideally, a campfire on the roof of a beach house, but that would be tricky.  I prefer to drink outside.  I don’t know if I have a particular spot though.

I’m being easily led astray on tangents today so here you go:

The Roof Is On Fire--Bloodhound Gang

8.  Have you ever played a drinking game? If so what was it and how did it work?

Um, duh, I go to college in the Shtaytes 😉  Besides the typical beer pong and card games like King’s cup, I enjoy a good mustache game.  To play the mustache game one tapes a mustache to the TV and the group takes a drink every time the mustache lines up perfectly with someone’s face.


9.  Have you ever snuck a drink in somewhere where it wasn’t allowed? How did you do it?

You’re funny hahaha. And this survey is making me sound like a notorious party girl.  Not necessarily true.  We once snuck an entire bottle of Jager into an almost empty bar, and were refilling our glasses under the table like the classless, poor college students we were.  And of course my friends and I snuck our fair share of alcohol into the dorms as well.

10.  Were you ever busted drinking while underage by a parent or anyone else?

My mom knows all about my twin in Connecticut who happens to be 23.  She’s even gone to the breweries with her a couple of times. Image

I was caught by the cops once though—outside of my favorite bar.  It was a slow night and I tried to convince the cops that I really was 21 for about 15 minutes.  He’d called me in nationally and state-wide with no hits on my name…which didn’t necessarily mean I was a fraud. But I finally folded and he let me off without a ticket and without any documentation when I brought him my second fake ID the next day (which I’d tried to iron and messed up anyways…long story)

11.  Why do you think that drinking and travelling go hand in hand so well?

I think that drinking is a social activity.  That’s why it’s so popular among young people and travelers.  It is a great way to get to know people, improve perceived language ability :P, and share experiences.  ImagePlus, it’s globally practiced on a regular basis.

vv My host brother drinking at his graduation party 🙂

Blogs I Nominate (I only nominated a few.  Yup, I’m stumping the cycle, deal with it):

Yanama? from Larusayankee

Mark from Mark Goes To Europe

Brandon from I Told My Mom I’d Make This Blog

Nay? from A Year without peanut butter

Anyone from Chrisman2College

By the way, sorry if I got your name wrong 😦  I couldn’t find some of them!

Questions for the Nominated:

  1. If you had to pick one place in the world to make your “home base”, where would it be and why?
  2. What’s your funniest language barrier story?
  3. What’s the worst experience you’ve ever had with airport security?
  4. Have you ever been sick abroad?  Do tell.
  5. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?  (cliché but always interesting)
  6. Have you ever not been able to find a certain can’t-live-without product abroad?  What was it, where, and what did you do?
  7. Pick a favorite travel photo:
  8. What is the coolest-looking passport stamp you’ve ever gotten (or seen)?
  9. Do you have a New Year’s resolution this year and are you keeping it?
  10. What is the most memorable gift you’ve ever received?
  11. How long is the longest you’ve ever stayed awake?

Eleven Things About Me:

  1. I belly dance. 100_8835
  2. I’m always forgetting things/losing things/late.
  3. The doctors told my mom I was going to have Down’s Syndrome and that I was a boy.
  4. I’m OCD about brushing my teeth and I almost always do it twice before going to bed.
  5. My favorite color is green
  6. My favorite season is fall (surprised?)
  7. When I was little I threw the cat in the bathtub, with my brother in it.
  8. When I was little my brother locked me in the bathroom in a zipped (and tied) duffle bag.
  9. When I was little I used to generate real fake tears to get my brother in trouble.
  10. When I was little my brother convinced me to let him cut my arm repeatedly with his Swiss Army knife so I could be part of his “club.”
  11. I still sometimes look at my thumb and first finger to figure out left and right.

This is Argentina (TIA)

I died in my dream last night.  Shot in the head.  I watched as my blood slowly pooled around me and the life drained out of my body.

People say you can’t die in your own dreams.  Apparently you can, because I was really dead.  Like, no life dead.  My dream even continued after I died.  I was in a country at war.  We had a school trip to go tour the country; a campaign to slaughter ignorance by seeing how people are really being slaughtered every day around the world in countries like the one we went to.  The leader of our tour promised us that, while things sometimes got dangerous and scary, no one had ever been hurt.  But I knew that I was going to die on this trip.  I went anyways and within 20 minutes of arriving in a small town that had seen more death and fighting than any town should ever see, shots were fired, screams were let loose and mayhem commenced.

People were running in panic trying to hide from men in black with machine guns.  At first I looked to the leader of our group for guidance but our group’s shell was quickly broken and we all slowly oozed out like a raw egg, confused and seeking protection.  I ran into a fabric shop.  All of the workers had taken refuge under the room’s long horizontal tables.  It reminded me of a colorful kindergarten classroom but with sewing machines on the tables.  I chose a table near the back to hide under.  The carpet was blood red.  I lay down anyways.  Everyone had grabbed towels and hidden under them as if it would help them blend in or protect them from a ruthless bullet aimed to kill.  Their towels were red and black but the only towel I could find to offer some salvation was cream.  An off-white eggshell.  I climbed under and pulled it up to my neck, lying on the blood red carpet. Fragile, but not scared.


A man in black burst the door open and saw all of us huddled under the tables.  His eyes had sorrow in them.  He did not want to shoot us.  But he aimed his gun and fired at my head.  No one made a noise.  It was completely silent as my last breath sighed out.  It didn’t hurt.  It was like falling asleep.  Very peaceful.  The man did not want to shoot anymore.  Anyone.  He left and closed the door silently behind him.

After the fighting was over the workers emerged from under their towels and stared at my body for a while, my cream towel slowly staining as it absorbed the blood draining from my head.  My face was at rest.  They moved me on top of the table, blood dripping a tell-tale path to the real place I’d died.  They didn’t know how to respect me from there or what to do with me.  Some cried, but only because of how close they had been to death and hysteria.  They mostly just awkwardly stared at me.

The teacher and leader of the group panicked when he saw my dead body, immediately thinking of everything he would have to do now that someone had died within the first half hour of his tour.  Papers to sign, people to confess to, a total mess.

When I woke up from the dream, I was happy and energized.


I honestly can’t remember the last time that I’ve woken up without sleep trying to tug my eyelids back down and cocoon me in warm covers.  I can’t remember the last time I woke up and actually wanted to start my day.  That sounds morbid but it’s true.  I’m constantly tired and always grumpy when I wake up lately.  Today was different.

But then everything seemed to go wrong, seemed to try and make me swallow my optimism.  I had several things to do today.  I needed to get a new Sube (transit card) AGAIN, after it was stolen AGAIN on Friday; I needed to activate the iPhone Otto is letting me borrow for the next nine weeks till I go back; I needed to buy an iPhone cable to charge said iPhone; I had an eye doctor’s appointment at 4:30; I had to go withdraw money from Xoom because I’m running low on “just-in-case” cash; I needed to go to the pharmacy for eye drops, shampoo, and a wrist guard I need for my dance class; and I needed to do my laundry since all of my socks are quite literally falling apart they’re so overused and dirty.


^^My absurd amount of laundry right now 😦  And rest assured, all of that has been worn at least twice.

You can already assume that I only got one of those things done, but not for a lack of trying.  I found it strange that I didn’t want to sleep in.  Today I was actually allowed to sleep in since I didn’t have class but I simply couldn’t.  I lie in bed and read my book for a while anyways until my energy got the best of me.  I hopped out of bed, ate breakfast, put on clothes (REAL CLOTHES!) and brushed my hair until it shined more than usual.  I left the house and set off for the post office to get a new Sube.  It was a mean version of cold out.  The weather shouldn’t be allowed to change so suddenly.  Luckily I had brought a scarf to prepare (I know…Autumn wears scarves now?!….yes.)


When I had finished the 15-block trek to the post office in the arctic cold (like 50 degrees…), I felt like my face was dry as paper and my eyes were half swollen shut.  I waited in line 30 minutes just for them to tell me that there were no cards left.  I walked to the other post office (20 blocks).  No cards either.  Then I gave up and walked back home.  I ordered money online from Xoom and walked over there (10 blocks.)  I waited an hour before it was my turn.  They told me my transaction had yet to be processed and I could wait or just come tomorrow.  Tomorrow it was.  So I came home again, ate, counted my losses, watched 2 episodes of How I Met Your Mother and talked myself out the door again.

I went to three different technology stores before I realized that iPhone cables are harder to find than a vegetarian sandwich at McDonald’s.  To the big fancy Apple store I went.  But the cords there were $240 pesos.  Yeah, I don’t care what the blue dollar is right now, I’m not paying that much.   See why Apple and I aren’t friends?  Well, I was about to be late to my eye doctor’s appointment so I abandoned the pricey cable with a glare and sauntered off.  Luckily, the eye doctor is only four or five blocks from my house, so I made it on time.  I sat in the waiting room reading on my kindle for about 15 minutes before they took me back and reviewed what we had talked about last time.

I am almost blind…and I’ve had this silly eye disease since I was ten.  It’s not so bad.  Everything looks like a watercolor actually.  So when I see my face in the mirror in the morning, I can’t see any imperfections and I tend to go through my days thinking I’m way hotter than I actually am.  With women’s confidence being statistically low, I imagine this evens out with my self-esteem to a perfect equilibrium, but who really knows.  I’m the last person who’d know what I actually look like.

Anyhow, last May, I joined a clinical study in the US for this thing called corneal collagen cross-linking (CXL).  It cost me a buttload of money (or should I say it cost my generous uncle and brother a buttload of money.  I really am grateful, I feel much more relieved now that I know my disease can’t get worse after the surgery) for the three-hour procedure.  Supposedly CXL is supposed to stop me from needing a corneal transplant in the coming years and stop the progression of my disease.  I think it has, but since I moved to Argentina I haven’t really been able to check.


^^Told you I wasn’t human 😛

I finally got tired of going through my days here not being able to see shit.  I’ve also started to feel nauseous by the end of every day and I know it’s because I can’t see and I get dizzy.  So I asked around and found an expert on my disease here in Buenos Aires.  As luck would have it, Dr. Albertazzi’s office is only like 5 blocks from my house!  I went to see him and he assumed I was trying to get approved for the usual “cure”—Ferrara rings.  Yeah, never heard of those before.  I think I’ve been to so many eye doctor’s appointments in my lifetime (and certainly paid for them…) that I deserve a degree in opthamology by now…but I’ve never heard of these Ferrara rings before.  That’s because, like CXL, these type of ferrari-rarra-ro rings aren’t approved in the USA yet, despite having over 10 years of precedence in Europe, Canada, South America, and everywhere else in the world.

So, after I got home from my first appointment I did a bunch of research and was shocked at what I found.  The first time I researched the options for my disease before I got CXL I never found anything about the rings, but they’re everywhere online.  They’re the most common (and promising) option for people with my disease.  If you’re diagnosed with Keratoconus anywhere except the USA they recommend CXL and these ring things right away…but if you live in the US, you may be doomed to thousands of eye appointments, fitting consultations, contacts, and even an organ transplant (cornea)!  I mean, at first I really didn’t believe it.  My eye doctors in the US wouldn’t have kept me from that.  They wouldn’t.  But they did apparently.  It doesn’t sound real…but I promise I researched it well and was surprised too.  Ten years later…here I am.  So anyways, I read all this optimistic information about the ring thingys and started to imagine what it would be like to see again.


^^Ferrariara ring-things (It’s actually Ferrara…I just can’t say it, so I purposely say it wrong)

Some people go from seeing like me (terribly) to not even needing glasses to correct their vision.  It’s been eight years since I couldn’t even wear bifocals.  It’s surreal to think that just two years ago my mom and I were sitting down with an optic surgeon talking about corneal transplants and there’s this five-minute out-patient surgery that can practically fix me.  The catch is that it’s $3500 USD.  So I got my eyes dilated today and Dr. Albertazzi shined uncomfortably bright lights in my eyes to look at my retinas before I told him I wouldn’t be going through with the surgery.  He laid out my options and we decided that after I come back to Argentina in December I should sign up with the obra social OSDE.  They will cover all of it.  Hopefully it is as good as it sounds but I am impatient after imagining what it would be like to read street signs again and stop accidentally waving to strangers.

It’s ok though, I’m sure it will be worth the wait. So with that bite of bittersweetness I was off to the mall to get my phone company to put a SIM card in the iPhone.  Better to have a phone than nothing, even if I can’t charge it.  I walked the 15 blocks there, walked up three stories and halfway across the mall to find a huge phone-store-sized sign saying that Claro was under construction in order to “serve me better.” I may or may not have kicked the sign.  It’s very rare that I get angry like that but, it was more of a pat with my foot than a kick.  You couldn’t even tell. 🙂

On top of all that, I was totally blind everywhere I went because of the eye dilation.  Seriously.  If I couldn’t see anything before, this was like…well, worse.  I had to move the font size up on my kindle to the biggest.  It won’t even fit one sentence per page now.  Shame.  I think the day was lost.  I feel like I didn’t do anything!  Sigh.  Tomorrow I will try and tackle the to-do list again, but this time I will be ready for it.  I thought it woulda been easy.  Silly Autumn.  This is Argentina 😛  Things close, cards run out, and Apple is literally a golden apple.  TIA.


P.S.  Just went to start my laundry and there is no laundry soap.

The world: 1  Autumn: -5000

No Pictures, Please

Alright, so I owe you all an explanation for my absence…but I’m not going to give it to you.  If you know me at all you’ll understand that I’ve been overwhelmed lately and being overwhelmed does not really bring out my productive side.  Not at all.  In fact, when the wind viciously assaults my face I tend not to simply turn my cheek and keep walking…no, no, no.  Instead, I usually turn and run with the wind.  That metaphor was confusing and for some reason brought up strange images of my Pocahontas alter ego donning sneakers and singing parodies of Colors of the Wind.  Sorry.  See why I can’t properly explain why I haven’t been writing lately?  What I meant to say is: stress does strange things to me.  That’s the best explanation I’m able to give you (except for the rest of this post which could seem like an extra long-winded explanation.)

There is A LOT going on in my life right now (surprising, huh?)  Sometimes I wonder how much profit I could make contributing content to cheesy Hollywood drama shows.  Probably an obscene amount—at least with the way my life’s been somersaulting anyways.  Well, there’s a shortened, more cryptic version of your explanation.  Moving on:

Here’s a picture of me right now in 1,000 words:

I’ve been in my pajamas all day.  They’re more comfortable than regular clothing lately, partly because I’m lazy and stressed about virtually everything so if I’m not going to leave the house I might as well indulge, and partly because I’ve developed a concerning addiction to alfajores.  Yeah, cookies make you fat.  Adding a couple of pounds of cookies to my paunch makes my jeans uncomfortable.  PJs for the win!  Kind of.  …At least my boobs are getting bigger too, but this is serious!  Coming from the girl who can eat a pound of chocolate in one sitting and not feel an ounce of guilt OR show it, this self-admission should be alarming.  It’s ok though, because I’ve recognized the problem and started working out.  I’m doing these dance classes with my friend Ike and I feel so much better after every class.  I have also curbed my intake of dulce de leche and even quit coffee (sort of)!

I have three documents open on my computer right now: a final essay for my online class due tomorrow, my notes for the Management midterm I have on Tuesday, and you guys.  School.  School, school, school.  Yeah, school was cool, but I just wasted like five words right there.  Sigh.  I’m so unmotivated for anything school-related.  I do like my new school a lot (if you’ll recall I switched schools this semester for a bigger challenge because I felt bored.)  I actually feel like I’m learning there and I enjoy it.  The problem is that I have no idea what I’m doing being at school anymore besides fulfilling an excuse to be here in Argentina.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to have a real degree and be finished and everything, I just wish I knew what I really wanted to study…or do…or anything.  The closer I get to the finish line, the more I realize that I’m just as lost, if not more lost, than I was when I started college.  At least when I started I was oblivious to the fact that I had no idea what I was doing.  Now that I know that I don’t know, I’m terrified.  I want to study something for real.  With this school actually challenging me again I’ve become re-interested in academics and learning things.  My inner nerd woke up from a very very long siesta… but I don’t know what I’d want to study if I decided to study something else.  I don’t want to study really until I have a direction.  Finding a direction requires you to know what you like doing and what you want to do.  It’s hard to explain, but I just want to know what I want; while I don’t know I find it increasingly harder to dedicate time and energy to something I’m unsure about.  The words “school” and “know” just lost their meaning; I’ve said them too many times.

As to my love life, that’s confusing as well.  Boys.  Boys, boys, boys.  Meh.  I like the word school better right now.  I only have 9 weeks left in Argentina this year, can you believe it?  I’ve done a surprisingly excellent job of spinning a scandalous, romantic web here for the last ten months.  So well, in fact, that I got tangled up in the stickiness of it all myself.  That’s ok.  I’m sure I will untangle a lot of in the next few weeks before I go back to Colorado, but I just feel kind of lost.  Every time that I announce I know what I want and I’m happy, I end up second guessing myself.  I did meet a boy that I like.  (This is weird to publicly disclose to you all but shhhh…it’s a secret 😉 )  The problem is that I’m still in love with one back home.  Maybe that’s not a problem.  But it does complicate things.  I don’t know what to do so…I am just kind of lazy-rivering it and trying to ignore the whole situation.

That’s not working very well, but I guess it will get resolved eventually; I only have nine more pitifully short weeks.

A good friend told me that the reason I’m not sleeping lately might be because I feel like I have to choose one of my lives: here or there.  I have been rather homesick lately now that I know I can hug my mom and my dog (Happy Mother’s Day btw!)  in just two short months. The time I spend lying awake trying to fall asleep I sometimes start imagining what it’s going to be like when I get back.  This was something I started when I was sick and miserable in Bolivia.  When you’re that sick and you don’t have your mom to boss around and buy you ice cream, you start to wish you did.  I love it here in Argentina and I want to stay but I can’t stop daydreaming about that future day in July in the airport.  I’m planning on giving everyone cliché, running-start hugs.  You know, the kind that you see in movies but are much harder to execute in person.  Those kind where your hands involuntarily drop all of your belongings wherever they may fall, your feet start carrying you across the slippery tiles, magically avoiding slipping or running you into some poor stranger in the crowd, and launch you at the perfect moment to land in your loved one’s arms and kick up your feet in the most exaggerated hug.  It’s going to be awesome.  Someone should film it because it’s going to be a hallmark reunion.  Bad ass.

But, anyhow, I shouldn’t be making everything so black and white.  Leaving Argentina for the next six months doesn’t mean that my life here isn’t real, nor does it mean that I’ll be abandoning everyone back in the US when I come back.  It just means that my heart has to stretch really far, far enough to span two continents.  Nine weeks.  Where did the other 48 go?!  That’s so short.

But I don’t plan to spend them locked in my room trying not to confront reality.  I mean, I spent the last couple doing that, time to move on.  So passé.  So I’m trying to motivate myself to face the wind and keep walking.  I have great friends and family here and in the US, I’m going to be able to get through the last few months of school, and I promise I will still wear the same size jeans when I get home (but who cares if I don’t anyways!)  Here comes trouble.  😉

Ok, so that was 101 words too many, but wouldn’t be Autumn if not long-winded.