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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 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.

Cold Blooded

Alright, let’s return to my crazy summer adventure and recount the next chapter.

I think I left off when we arrived in Cuesta Blanca and collapsed onto the beach bathing in sunlight and eating paltatomatomayonesa sandwiches.  Pretty pristine moment.  After we finished, I snapped into my swim suit and we crossed the bridge looking for an empty stretch of beach to get some sand between our toes.  It wasn’t hard to find.  We were just out of view of the bridge—a spot with shade, sun, and even a rock in the river perfect for dipping in just up to your ankles.  We spent the next few hours enjoying the paradise of the sun and water, fooling around on the guitar, and cat napping.

The sand was full of micah and had a surreal sparkle in the sunlight.  I couldn’t really capture it with my camera but here are my best attempts:


I woke up before Maxi and went and splurged on a bottle of fernet and some Coca-Cola at the convenience store to celebrate our successful arrival to the beach.


Turned out Max was hiding some celebration refreshments as well—his favorite crappy cheap wine, Santa Ana.  We gathered sticks for a camp fire and I expertly built the twig and showed off my superior boy scout skills.  Max busied himself breaking apart the dead branches we’d dragged down to the beach saying, “Yeah, well…see, I was always the one who helped put the tent up, ya know?  Not actually starting a camp fire…”  It’s ok, I had his back.  I only learned how to build a campfire a couple of years ago and am still embarrassed that I went through the majority of my life not knowing how to strike a match and perform an essential survival skill…This time I was incredibly proud as we sat near the fire drinking ferne y coca and vino from the bottle and eating the rest of the avocadoes and tomatoes we’d purchased earlier.


We talked for hours about politics, the benefits of hitch hiking, Maxi’s adventures through Israel, and our excitement about what was to come in the next two months we had to travel.  It was great to connect a little with Max but we still managed to avoid any personal details about our lives like family and friends back home, girlfriends/boyfriends, and deeper philosophies.  For me it is not very common to spend more than four or five hours talking with someone and somehow skirt around these topics, especially when we’re drinking, but Maxi and I talked and talked about everything but.


At some point in the conversation I curled up next to the campfire with just my stolen airplane blanket and fell asleep. I don’t know when exactly I dropped dead, but I know that we were mid conversation and I know exactly when I woke up.

I woke up and it was still dark, the flames had turned to embers and smoke and the stars were incredible.  I didn’t see anything though.  I could only feel.  Cold.  So, so COLD.  I could barely move I was so cold.  I wrapped myself like a burrito in my paper thin airplane blanket that didn’t even cover my toes and shook for what seemed like hours trying to fall back asleep.  At last, I surrendered and made a break for my backpack tearing out every single shirt I owned and layering them on, changing into jeans and dawning as many pairs of socks as would fit into my shoes.  I had no regard for where my articles of clothing flew in my freeze-fueled frenzy and I think it would’ve looked like a yard sale of my intimates on the beach if it weren’t so dark.  My jacket barely fit over the layered clothing that did manage to make it onto my body.  I returned to my poor excuse for a blanket none the warmer and shivered for another ten minutes before I started literally crying.

I wasn’t too quiet about it either, but I don’t remember ever being so miserably cold in my life.  (Not before that moment anyways…there were other episodes like this during the trip.  This is the most memorable though.)  I finally caved and decided to wake up Maxi to see if he could spare part of his sleeping bag.  I started out my attempts to wake him none too subtly by shaking his shoulders and crying in his face.  He didn’t budge.  The wine had apparently cut him off from this dimension and he lacked any sense of consciousness.  I was desperate.  I was half-yelling half-crying and probably sounded like a dying werewolf.  As a last resort I hobbled to the fire and literally sat in the embers.


It was a short-lived relief, but it had the desired effect.  I alternated putting different body parts in the remains of the fire and singing my clothing until I had melted all of the icicles down to my fingertips.  I laid out my airplane blanket on the rocks next to the fire and stuck my face as close to the embers as possible without burning the skin off of my nose, still crying.  Suddenly, I froze (pun intended.)


Even though I couldn’t wake Maxi, I had apparently waken somebody else up and froze in fear when I saw a flashlight and heard an, “Hola,” aimed in our direction.  Maybe I was being overdramatic with the cold thing.  Were we even allowed to camp on the beach?  Did maybe one of the people who lived in the town worry and call the police?  Why couldn’t I wake Maxi up?!  What was I going to tell these people if they stumbled upon our camp and found two foreigners trying to explain themselves amidst the remains of wine bottles and my entire collection of underwear sprinkled across the sand???  I held my breath, but the “hola”’s kept coming.

Please, Let Me Explain

Hola beautiful tribe of readers!  It’s been quite some time since I’ve written—mostly the fault of my incredible level of business but partially my personal lack of motivation to do anything that produces other-than-social results.  I seriously feel like my social life has been a full time job lately, but I’ll cover that later.

I am supposed to be in class right now.  Surprise, surprise!  Autumn is exploring her capacity to be irresponsible on a Tuesday.  Still though, my week has been utterly crazy without my doing much of anything.  The world’s coincidences and little everyday mishaps also seem to be targeting me.  For example, let me tell you about my morning:  I woke up at 7 AM freaking out that I’d slept in too long again.  I didn’t, so I went back to sleep and had some really awesome dreams…which were rudely interrupted by my alarm a mere thirty minutes later.  It’s been difficult for me to drag my ass out of bed before the crack of noon lately so I left my windows open last night and pled for help from the sun.  I hate those mornings where you realize you have an extra few minutes of sleep and yet those cruel minutes only succeed in exhausting you further.  This has certainly been one of them. 

I snoozed right on through to 7:55 AM.  This was the kind of uncomfortable snoozing we’ve all experienced in which you never actually fall asleep but instead spin yourself into a grumpy mood because you just don’t want to get up.  You feel the noose of responsibility non-consensually extracting you from your warm sanctuary of sheets and finally succumb with a scowl plastered to your face through breakfast.  Plus, you’re probably running late at that point.  Blah.

I waded through the piles of dirty clothes on my floor, slumped to the bathroom, undressed, and pulled the shower curtain around me and the toilet.  I was fully awake and fully sober (not always a given in Argentina on a Tuesday morning at 8 AM…), but somehow life was out to get me today and with a big crash the whole shower curtain and bar came down in a cloud of dust.  I wasn’t even touching it.  Being a totally hardened nature girl the first thing that crossed my mind was, of course, my hair.  I wasn’t going to leave the house unshowered today.  Thus began the complicated process of me trying to shove the nails of the shower curtain bar firmly back into the wall.  To get an idea of what this looked like you should first understand that my bathroom is less than a meter wide, I was clotheless, and standing on my tippy toes against the wall trying not to sneeze against the dust that I was unsettling with my fruitless efforts.  Ok, clearly I couldn’t do this without synthetic height.  I wrapped a towel around me and tiptoed to the living room hoping against hope that I hadn’t woken anyone up with the traitorous shower curtain.  It was now 8:15… I grabbed a chair and snuck back to the bathroom only to discover that it didn’t fit past the sink, let alone through the doorway. 

Attempt number two led me to shutting the bathroom door, ditching the towel and tentatively lending my weight to the toilet to try and reach the shower bar.  Yeah, well my toilet is kind of made of plastic; like the lightweight thin kind that isn’t made to hold up even the tiniest of young women (a race I don’t belong to anyways.)  Although I was desperate for a shower, I was patient enough to not break both the toilet and the shower bar in one day.  I’m not going to lie, dawning my tallest high heels actually crossed my mind.  I imagined myself gracefully sliding the shower bar back into the wall with a Martha Stewart smile and a wink.  But it’s me…with high heels…and no clothes…and then my daydream image crashed with reality revealing the sure result of that—broken bones and something even more crazy like a sink torn from the wall and…uh-uh.  Bad idea. 

I reluctantly wrapped my towel around me again and set off for a stool.  Apparently the stool that’s always in the same place in our kitchen took the day off in honor of my special clumsiness and was nowhere to be found.  Somehow though, my search brought me to the terrace and I saw some white plastic footstools that looked promising.  I tried to open the backdoor quietly so as not to wake my family and stepped out onto the tenth floor balcony in my towel.  But of course a strong wind chose that exact moment to assault me and steal my towel, leaving me stumbling naked after it and slipping on something halfway across the terrace.  I’d like to think that no one saw me belly flop over my own feet and land sprawled out naked on my host family’s terrace reaching desperately for a rogue towel but, let’s face it:  I live in the center of a city of 15 million people and it was already 8:30 in the morning. 

I recovered my towel, grabbed the stool, and abandoned the rest of my dignity outside to go back in and get my blasted shower.  I totally deserved it at this point.  The stool held up despite my record of poor luck this morning and I was able to push the shower bar back into its rightful place between sneezes.  It wouldn’t stay though and I ended up showering awkwardly balancing the shower bar above me while standing on the stool and ducking every time I needed to rinse my hair. I would wager that I’m more covered in dust and dirt than when I started the whole ordeal.

That episode ended at 8:37 and I retreated to my room to put on some real clothes before reentering the kitchen in search of coffee; wasn’t going to leave anything to chance this time.   I couldn’t find anything acceptable to wear, which is quite unsurprising because I haven’t done laundry since I got home from my summer trip.  Throwing on a dirty tank top and the Argentine equivalent of sweat pants (balis), I heard another colossal crash from the bathroom.  It made me pause with my arms halfway through the straps of my stretched out tank top but nothing more.  I’ve kept the bathroom door shut since then, determined not to deal with it now.  Coffee didn’t make everything better like it’s supposed to.  I still feel tired and groggy and the scowl I woke up with didn’t even neutralize through breakfast.  I don’t think I’m going to my morning class.  Maybe I’ll finish writing about the next part of my journey this morning…maybe I’ll return to my dreams.  So many opportunities once you finally decide to ditch your daily duties 🙂

P.S.  I dyed my hair black on impulse!  Not sure how I feel about it yet…

Questions II: Answering Dad’s Comment

So this post is directed towards Dad’s comment on my last blog.  I decided to make it a whole new blog though because it turned out long.  Keep in mind I’m speaking to Natalie so I don’t use proper grammar sometimes and you might not get inside jokes.  It’s also visually unstimulating (new camera on FRIDAY!!! I CAN’T WAIT!!!) Sorry.  I didn’t intend to make it a whole blog at first.  Here is Dad’s original comment:

In a lot of ways, the US isn’t that great 😛 so I can see there are a lot of things you DON’T miss about home (besides the people n shit). Do you miss the Colorado sun at all? I know that’s something I’d miss on a daily basis. I also don’t know how movie theaters/music releases/shopping is down there, but do you miss any of that? Being able to go to the movies for (somewhat) cheap the day it comes out? Or am I assuming too much now, and that Argentina actually goes get movies/music right away? I could be wrong here, so please correct me if I am.

Things I WOULDN’T miss about the U.S. right now:
-Goddamn political ads/Republican vs. Democratic tension
-Having to drive everywhere. It’ll be nice to move to a big city where I won’t have a car–won’t have to pay for gas, won’t have to transport my ass lazily across town. I’ll walk, ride the bus, take the subway, get a taxi, or some other mode of transportation. I know, first world problems.
-some old scene in Old Town every weekend
-Stupid hillbilly hicks from Wyoming comin down to the big Fort only to make racist jokes about the only 2 Arabs in line to Bondi
-LGBT hatred–no, really, it’s gotten a lot worse ever since I became AWARE of it. There’s some acceptance, but the U.S. really has some prejudice and hatred towards this group, too
-Never seeing anybody racially different from myself. Never MEETING anybody culturally different, either. Stupid vanilla-valley poshy Fort Collins….
-Hearing “Good Times” over and over again on the radio. Gotta be kidding me, it’s as bad as Call Me Maybe but I hate Owl City and Good Times is just the most annoying song I could possibly imagine playing over and over again (not to mention a handful of other songs on the top of iTunes right now. I will NOT miss the U.S.’s horrible taste in music)
-seeing an intense concentration of trucks and Hondas. Not to hate on my truck, I love my truck :), but I rarely see a nice/foreign car like a Porsche, Ferrari, or BMW.
-I really will NOT miss the intense Colorado wind. It’s been bad this season, like a hurricane out my window 😦

Love you Autumn! ❤ miss you all the time.


1.     Yes I miss the Colorado sun.  But it’s almost summer here and I really love the sun right now.  It rains a lot…but I don’t actually mind it. I think it’s really cool actually because we never get rain like this in Colorado.  The humidity…not a big fan but it’s not miserable yet so I reserve the right to judge it later.

2.     Argentina isn’t a third world country.  Of course they have movie theaters and music.  Hahaha I am sure I wondered the same thing back in the US but really it’s not like they haven’t discovered the wheel yet.  I’m not chastising you 😛  But they have everything we have pretty much except milk cartons (milk comes in a bag…) and good cheese (had to mention that one again…seriously.)  Movies are expensive though.  I went to see Batman when I first got here and tickets are like twelve bucks…and you know what a cheapass I am so that’s the only movie I’ve been to see here.  Sometimes they have two for one deals on like Wednesdays or something but eh. I’m not a huge movie buff and I download things illegally if I really want to so….yeah.  The movie theater was four stories though 😛  Our movie was on the fourth floor haha It was kind of cool.

3.     As to music—I download everything.  So no different.  The music that plays in clubs is different sometimes.  Like they get all the top hits (most of the top hits I think, although I don’t really listen to the radio); my friends are a bit obsessed with LMFAO haha it’s kind of cute.  Some clubs play Latin music.  Some play the same type of stuff that Bondi does (although I haven’t found one that I enjoy as much as Miguel’s DJing…I’m actually not a huge fan of the boliches here.)  It’s hit or miss with me really. 

4.     Shopping.  Oh god.  I have such a hard time walking down Santa Fe every day.  And I’ve lost all sense of how much things cost.  I’m starting to think in pesos instead of dividing everything by four to give me an idea of how much something costs…but things are much more expensive here (I think…I just honestly don’t know any more haha)  But Santa Fe has divine window shopping.  It killllllls me.  I fight my consumerism every day and it’s a bloody battle let me tell you.

5.     Political ads aren’t as intense down here, you’re right.  But this isn’t an election year yet and they have strict rules regarding campaigning.  That being said, I’ve mentioned several times before how much more politics there actually are—or at least how much people care.  I don’t understand it that much though.  There’s not two main parties…there’s several and they all have rich histories.  They just had another “marcha” on the 8th of November; people seem to pay a lot more attention to politics and I do too now.  But I actually like it. I’m enjoying actually giving a shit haha it’s strange.

6.     And you say same old scene in old town.  Well, I kind of miss being on first name basis with the bartenders.  And knowing where to go that I’ll have a good time for really cheap.  Too many options here…and everywhere charges cover.  They have promos a lot that fool you into thinking you’re getting a good deal, but I miss the times when al
l I needed to get into the club was a good fake.

7.     LGBT stuff.  Yes.  I know.  It is bad in the states.  We seriously need to get a grip.

8.     Racially different and ignorance hahahaha yeah.  Umm everyone here is pretty explicit about the race thing.  No one is politically correct and they’re openly racist.  I mean in some ways it’s kind of abrasive but in some ways it’s refreshing (not the open racist part but people are allowed to say what they think…and of course I fit right in 😉 )  It’s common to hear someone talk about how all the Chinese people hire immigrants from Bolivia to work at their fruit stands.  It’s the truth though.  Like I can’t explain it.  But you should realize how many people you do see on a regular basis that are racially different.  I didn’t until I came here and made friends with a black guy in our program (Alex.)  He’s definitely a rarity here, and people notice.  Despite being like 6 million people swarming the streets in the center of the city where I live and go to school every day, I hardly see anyone who’s black.  The states, even Fort Collins, are more racially diverse (or at least we mix together…here there are many different races but they just don’t hang out together.)  And that’s saying something.   When my host brother said he’d never talked to anyone Asian outside of a chino we compared Facebook friends lists.  Seriously.  They all have like the sammmmeee names too, or at least it feels like it so I have the hardest time remembering them.  Actually, I recently found out when my host sister had a baby that Argentina has a list of names that are preapproved and you can name your kid.  You can’t legally name them something that’s not on the list.  If you want, you can petition for another name…but it’s a long complicated process through embassies of other countries where that name comes from and such, AND on top of that everyone uses nicknames.  For example, my host siblings are Tomás—Tomi, Guillermo—Guillo or Guille, Lucrecia—Lucre.  My friends here all use them too (except for Sol because, well, you can’t make Sol much shorter J )  My friend Marianita has begun to call me Otoñito and Oto for short!

9.     And I haven’t heard Good Times here, but I hear other things over and over again that I just don’t understand.  I have poor taste in music sometimes too. L Lauti (Lautaro) makes fun of me because I have some Justin Bieber songs on my phone.  And I don’t even want to talk about Selena Gomez or Tatu….  I hang my head in shame but they’re so catchyyyyy! (P.S.  I’ve realized that I’ve been picking up some Leahismmmmm.  A lot of people do it here over facebook chat and such, and it’s hard not tooooo! Hopefully you still love me though.)

10.  The cars here are way different too. Most all of them are manuals, so the light system goes from yellow—red—yellow—green.  That way the cars have time to switch gears in busy traffic.  And I hardly ever see trucks.  Lauti thinks he owns a truck.  But poor dear doesn’t know it’s a makeshift jeep.  I love him all the same but I know it would probably shatter his naiveté to see the jeeps of my brother’s friends.  They all weld their own fancy parts and take them up in the mountains and such.  I don’t know what he’d make of your truck (which is actually a truck.)  I miss your truck though.  So many great memories haha

11.  Colorado wind is nothing compared to what I was subjected to when we pretended to go “trekking” in the Patagonian peaks of Ushuaia. It was incredible.  Similar to Wyoming winds I suppose but even stronger. 


I promise a new blog is coming soon too.  I know it’s been like a month but I can’t even begin to make you all understand how busy I’ve been having too much fun and such.  It’s about my birthday J