The Five Seasons of Patagonia

There are five seasons in Patagonia, without a doubt. You learn that the moment you step foot down the street in El Calafate. There is Summer, then Fall, which is followed by Winter, which is surprisingly followed by Spring, but then you have Wind. More wind than you know what to do with. So much wind that any wind energy company would make an absolute fortune out in La Pampa for 1 month out of the year, if they can work their way around Argentine bureaucracy - which is no small task. So much wind that running down the street would keep you competitive with molasses coming out of a jar. It literally blows you over. And people still wonder why no one lives in the great plains of Patagonia. The fact that there is absolutely nothing there (a solitary bush constitutes the highest point of elevation) until you hit the mountains becomes obvious.

Our welcoming committee at the airport was a short rotund anarchist who runs some questionable business practices within the city. It was a non-stop discussion on the way to the hostel of the corruption and monopolization by a few families who essentially run everything within and surrounding the city limits. I half-expected to hear how the world was going to end and which was the most popular conspiracy theory of the day, but we made it to the hostel before we could all learn how the calafate berry isn't actually a berry but a genetically modified fruit straight out of 'Brave New World'.

Our taxi driver, we found out, actually works at the hostel, so that wasn't the last we saw of him. We were met by our welcoming hippie hostel hosts at the door who looked like they could be on the receiving end of said shady business deals. But they were incredibly nice and knowledgeable, and probably one of the best hostel staffs I've had.

The next day we had big plans to see the Perito Moreno glacier, El Calafate's claim to fame. It's about 80km outside of the city, so naturally one has to take a bus. We bought our tickets through the hostel, and wandered down to the bus station. There had been some confusion about when the bus was actually leaving - the ticket had at least two different times on it and two different hostel workers gave us two more departure times, so it's safe to say we knew exactly when this bus was leaving. We wound up missing the bus by just a few minutes, of course. So here we were in two taxis caravaning and beating the speed limit by an easy 30km/hr rocketing down a highway in the middle of nowhere trying to catch up, but no bus was in sight. I guess that's one way to see the countryside. I think the taxi drivers had fun a) racketing up a huge fare and b) going 100+km/hr down the road in what seemed like a reject-Ford with below-legal safety standards. We wound up spending the rest of our afternoon walking through a bird reserve chasing seagulls.

The next day we got up early and got to the bus station with plenty of time to spare. We got on the bus. No Dakar Rally-style catch-up today. As soon as the glacier popped out from behind a mountainside, I knew it was one of the most impressive geological features I'd ever seen. It's a 60-meter-high (180ft) block of ice that covers 270 square kilometers - with another 180 meters of depth below the water surface - stretching up the valley and beyond where the eye can see. We spent the day walking along the convenient boardwalk taking it all in. This glacier, Perito Moreno, is special in that it is one of the only stable glaciers in the world. By that I mean enough is being created to cancel out that which falls off. We took a boat ride that brought us within a few hundred feet - it's pretty awe-inspiring. It's positioned in such a way that it bisects a lake by making contact with a peninsula. Every few years, as the water works its erosive magic in order to keep both parts of the lake connected, a huge arch is formed that eventually collapses. It's apparently quite the show. Occasionally some huge chunks would fall off (although nothing compared to the massive arch), and it sounded like the HMS Surprise had just been given the order to fire by Captain Aubrey. It was loud. Half the time we'd hear it, then snap our heads around to see it, but of course the ice had already fallen. That didn't stop us from whipping our head around every time we heard something and every time not seeing anything, except a mini-tsunami from where the ice fell into the lake. You'd think we would learn. 'Ah man that was awesome!' 'Did you see anything?' 'No!'

After a day of looking at ice, we hitched it on back to El Calafate as the temperature started to drop. As soon as we got to the bus station, it was a quick turnaround before jumping on another bus to our next destination: El Chalten. I read somewhere that El Chalten has one ATM, and it works maybe a quarter of the time. So naturally I thought I should bring all the cash I would need from El Calafate, and of course I told myself I'd get it in between our two buses when we would have a 15-20min break. Logical, right? The one factor that I was forgetting was that I was in Argentina. The bank had a line out the door. So here I am impatiently waiting thinking of every Spanish swearword I know, and the people in front of me are literally using about 5 different cards to take out cash. I eventually bailed and decided to put all of my eggs in a basket that dispenses money 90 days a year. In a town of 300, debit cards might not work so well, so here I was thinking I had some serious issues. Digging snow caves and licking plates clean for money suddenly came to the forefront of my mind.

And the wind. That howling, cold, biting wind. 5 debit cards? Really?

El Fin Del Mundo

(The following posts are from my final travels, a 3 week circuit of southern Patagonia, during the first three weeks of December)

Ushuaia, Argentina. Arguably the most southernly inhabited settlement in the world. The Chileans would take issue with that, with their town called Puerto Williams across the channel, but what else is new? I feel like it's a rivalry between all countries on this continent. Chi chi chi, le le le!

After 1 hour of sleep the night before - you have to love these Buenos Aires nights - I stumbled to the airport to catch my flight to Ushuaia. Getting on an airplane in this country is never a straightforward experience, and it seems as if you can't complete a flight without being delayed during some point of your journey. But hey, we got here without any problems. Not that I remember the flight - I slept through the peanuts and everything. We reached Ushuaia uneventfully to be met with a coastal settlement nestled up against some touring peaks under a cloudless "ceiling" (the flight captain searched for the english word for cielo, which means sky, and came up with ceiling - close enough). After spending the last few weeks in the blistering heat of the rio de la plata, stepping off the plane to temperatures in the 30s was a bit of a shocker.

The town itself acts as a jumping off point for all expeditions to Antartica. The main pier is lined with big supply ships and tourist cruisers. Somehow dining on white table-cloths and sleeping in king sized beds while going to one of the most remote parts of the world doesn't really work in my mind. But if I were to drop a few grand, the cost of these tourist trips to Antartica, like the rest of the passengers on my plane down, I'd want golden goblets filled with the best of malbecs.

The afternoon saw us cruising the Beagle Channel in a small yacht, taking in the wildlife populating the rock mounds littering the channel. Sea lions competed with Patagonian seagulls for a piece of rock to take a nap on. Our pilot would take us to within inches of the rock, making me wonder if we were trying to find a rock to take a nap with them. It turned out to be a fantastic ride - after telling us that spending any more than a few minutes in the water would give us hypothermia, our guide suggested we walk on up to the front and sit in near-freezing water spray and enjoy the view from the front. We eventually made it to the symbolic lighthouse that marked 'el fin del mundo,' and all our guide could say was 'welcome to the ass of the world.' Indeed welcome, amigo.

Word on the one street in town was that the glacier up the hill (read: mountain) was pretty spectacular, so we headed up to check it out. The trip turned out to be a failure, with us finding ourselves in the middle of a whiteout following a river that had a very thin layer of ice on top just waiting to shoot us down the mountain in some of that hypothermic water. We decided to turn around before we turned into the next lost party of unprepared guys who thought they knew what they were doing but got spanked by Mother Nature. We kept things a little tame for the afternoon by wandering the halls of the Shawshank of Argentina hearing ghost stories of the first prisoners. Dufrane! I couldn't help but think of Port Arthur as we walked the dark, cold, cell-lined hallways. Anyone up for a light afternoon tourist activity?

Our final day in Ushuaia saw us going on our first true hike in Patagonia. All that hype you hear from people about hiking in Patagonia, they don't know what they're talking about. It's more than what words can describe. That's assuming you have good weather. If you don't, I can think of a lot of words that can be said that better not be posted here. But we lucked out with the weather gods - they probably took pity on us from our whiteout windstorm the day before - and found ourselves wandering along a coastal trail in the Tierra del Fuego National Park with absolutely spectacular, albeit somewhat chilly, weather. We gingerly moved past an extremely protective herd of wild horses as we made our way to the shores of the bay. From there, it was a four hour hike of non-stop magnificent vistas. Water as blue as Thailand but cold as water can be, quiet green forests dense with brush and trees, hawks and condors circling up above just waiting for a rabbit to be stupid enough to run out into the open, beaches littered with skipping rocks and tall snow-capped andean peaks keeping constant watch from across the bay - truly a hiker's paradise. That's when I don't mention the wind, but let's just return to the utopia I just mentioned. In all seriousness, it is probably one of my favorite hikes I've ever done.

Unfortunately our time ended in Ushuaia following that hike. But on to the next adventure of this Patagonian expedition - El Calafate, home of the Perito Moreno glacier. And what better way to call it quits to Ushuaia? Spend three hours waiting in the airport because our flight was delayed.

Toes in the Water

Well it looks like Argentina has rubbed off on the United States, from what I hear. The protests about the new security measures at airports rings of a manifestación Buenos Aires-style. Take that, TSA. I don’t think there is a word for big body scanner in porteño Spanish- I walked through the metal detector with half a spaceship in my pocket and I got a big smile and a ‘have a nice trip’. I could have been smuggling raw Argentine beef and all I would have got was a ‘what kind of cut?’ question thrown my way. Add that to my immigration officer who found it more efficient to be texting while stamping a friend’s passport as I waited next in line, and you’ve got a water-tight system. Officer Juan then got up to fill up his water bottle and continue texting, leaving about 10 of us stranded there in line as we watched him successfully not fill up his bottle and just stand feet away from his desk staring at his phone. Power trip 101.

Our ferry captain seemed to think that going faster than a sloth eating a banana is against the law, so our trip that could have taken about an hour wound up taking 3. I spent the hours crossing the Rio de la Plata on the top deck catching up with friends and not feeling sorry for everyone dealing with sub-50 degree temperatures back north. Once there, as we walked up the tree-lined driveway to Mario’s place on the outskirts of town, the semester-long debate over Mario’s source of income resurfaced. Phantom multi-national corporation? Smuggling business? Secret President of Argentina? His house in Colonia doubles as a bed and breakfast, but I would really call it a private estate. It has a lemon orchard, pool, pond, mansion of a house, and enough land on which to build the Field of Dreams.

We had a Thanksgiving southern hemisphere-style, with turkey and yams mixed with fruit, hummus, pumpkin spread and cranberry sauce on steroids in 90-degree heat. Someone had the ingenuity to bring along a football as well. After making my case to be the niners' QB, I had to answer the call of the beach. We wandered down a dirt road, with no end in sight (I seem to have a knack for walking down dirt roads with no end in the middle of no where) but eventually stumbled across a beach fit for a postcard, dilapidated boat on the sand and all.

Food was the farthest thing on my mind as the sun started to set behind the black hole of smog hovering over Buenos Aires. But there I was, eating dinner outside on a clear, warm summer night with the rio de la plata a few hundred feet away. If I really have to, I'll suffer through it.

After walking out of my posada the next morning, in which every angel painting, picture, or figurine known to man graces every surface (the name of the place is posada del angel - I don't know if they needed to get so literal) in the place, I wandered up the coast to find a beach to call home for the day. Turn on 'Toes' by the Zac Brown Band and you'll get an idea of my daylight hours. The big questions, those really difficult ones, were how big the frisbee field should be, if I should go in the water or not and if I wanted a choripan or chivito for lunch. I took hours deliberating. After those many hours we passed away the night after an all-program dinner by a fire on the beach watching the thunderstorms across the river over Buenos Aires.

We just couldn't get the beach out of our system in one day, so we all piled into probably the only 4 taxis in town and headed to a spit of sand a few km outside of the city. We were the only people there, which might have been due to the perfect storm bearing down on the coast. The sun was non-existant, winds were high and whipping sand around like Roger Federer makes any opponent run. It was painful. We weren't alone on the beach though - we shared our hurricane with a herd of cattle. If I were a cow in Uruguay I'd for sure hit the beach. We went up to them and all I could think of was running back the other way with 15 angry cows behind me. Who needs San Fermin when you can do it on the beach in Uruguay? I think they were too busy eating sand to care, so we skipped rocks and made faces at them and only got a face-full of cowpies in return. They know who's king of the beach.

We could only take so much of the Sahara Sandstorm, so after a few hours we packed up and retreated back to the cobblestone streets and 1960s cars of Colonia. The taxi service sent one too few, so what do you know but three of us were walking down a dirt road with no end in sight until it showed up. I rounded out my Uruguayan food adventures back in Colonia with a chivito, which is essentially the best steak sandwich you've ever had. Throw in a little sand for crunch, and there's nothing better. Ice cream sounded like a good idea to balance out the protein, so a couple of us decided to walk up the street to an ice-cream store. It looked great. We were literally standing across the street when probably the entire elementary school population of Colonia walked into the ice cream store. We just looked at each other and laughed. It was a sign. We settled for kiosk ice cream and popsicle sticks instead of cones. A little lawn-chair time next to the posada's pool and five different angel statues rounded out the day before jumping on another three-hour ferry back to Uruguay's big brother across the river.

So how was your Thanksgiving?

So You Want to Take a Final

STOMP is good no matter where or when you see it. I took a few friends who had never seen it before to the traveling show when it made a stop here in BA last weekend, and they walked out of there tapping handrails and making a bad attempt at beat boxing. It was a phenomenal show; they did a great routine with some stereotypical folding chairs, along with the traditional brooms, lighters and trash can lids. They had the entire place mic'd up, and when they seriously got rocking (like during the sign wall picture above, or during the trash can lid part) the whole theater was vibrating. The 8 year old behind us uttered several no me gusta!'s (I don't like it!) as it seemed as if the whole place was about to come down. I thought it was awesome. Every single parent who took their kids to the show I know will regret it for the next week, with forks finding every surface and sound during dinner each night.

Sunday saw me browsing through the markets scattered around the city. While browsing through the countless different items for sale (some of them real head scratchers; they left such an impression on me that I can't even remember what they are) I enjoyed some music and watched some tango dancers do their thing. One guy's product was a little device that makes a chicken noise if you pull a string. It sounded so similar to a chicken that, yeah, I bought one. Impulse buy if there ever was one. For $1.25, I think the bank account can handle it. Now I can annoy just about everyone near me with a constant chicken clucking. In the middle of class, in the middle of dinner, on the bus, behind a random person on the street- I'll be my own traveling comedy show. If the next post talks about me looking for new housing/exploring hostel options/getting deported, you'll know why.

The interesting thing about the markets, though, is how suddenly I was thrown back into the middle of tourist central here in Buenos Aires. Over the last few months I feel like I've integrated pretty well into the BsAs lifestyle. I wouldn't call myself a local by any means, but I think I've definitely reached a sort of half-way point between absolute tourist who gets nailed by two old ladies and bird poop (that fun fact and only that fun fact made it into the Daily Pennsylvanian, Penn's daily newspaper, the other day) and porteño maestro. Hearing people talking about basic spanish language points or just watching tourists be blatant tourists made me want to get out of there.

None of those tourists have to take finals, unlike yours truly. I'll take having four of them spread out over about three and a half weeks, with one of them being a paper though. Taking a final is normally a very straightforward pursuit. You study, you come to class, you sit down, you write your final, and you go home and remember you have a life. Here, on the other hand, things work a little differently. You'd think by now I'd have learned that things don't happen as expected in this country, but oh no. Taking a final at UCA was quite the experience.

First, you have to register for the final. A little odd, seeing as I was already registered for the class and I figured that the finals came with the entrée, but hey this isn't a buy-one-get-one-free country. I rolled with it - no problem. All signed up, I get to UCA at 8:40 or so for a 9:00 final, because the study abroad program staff recommended that we double-check which room the final is in. That is of course not an easy process (or I just don't know what I'm doing, since I went to several wrong places before running into a classmate who I followed to the right place) but eventually found that my final was in a different room from my regular lecture classroom.

I finally made it to the classroom, with a few minutes to spare. As I looked around, I noticed that absolutely everyone looked like they were going to a wedding. Suits, ties, well-put-together chicas, the works. UCA students dress well normally, but this was a whole other level. And there of course was yours truly in jeans, a T-shirt and shoes the farthest thing from dress shoes not called flip-flops. Fitting in is for suckers, right?

The two professors didn't show up until about 10:30 because they were finishing another final. It was nice to get a little extra study time in, for sure. But that extra study time turned into about 6 hours. I sat in that room waiting for my turn (they were oral finals which were done in front of everyone, believe it or not) for 6 whole hours. I was the very last one to go. The benefit to that though, was that I found out my grade quickly - no several week waiting period like back at Penn, which was nice.

I could be spoiled by Penn/YIS testing techniques, but 6 hours for 18 or so oral exams seems a little excessive. I'll bring my chicken to my next final to keep me occupied, just in case.

The Big Dance

The parks in this city are easily some of my favorite places. The people you meet, the things you see; I know I've said it before, but if you want to get to know a city, go to the parks. Last Friday I met up with some friends to toss a frisbee around, and we did it in the only open space we could find in the park we went to- a hard-top volleyball court. We weren't bothered for at least an hour, but eventually some guys showed up wanting to use the court to play. We said fine; we were reasonably tired as it was. We got to chatting with these sub 6ft. volleyball players, and stayed to watch them play. Now volleyball is a generous definition of what we watched. What it really was was a method to figure out who buys the beer for the night. Guys were playing with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths and basically just throwing the ball back and forth over the net as opposed to hitting it. Add to the fact that each team tried to cheat the other in typical Argentine-sports-fashion, and you've got an extremely entertaining match. We were going to jump in and play but judging by how long the first game was taking we wouldn't have gotten into a game until midnight.

It's a good thing that I didn't play volleyball until midnight, as I had some very serious work to do the next afternoon. I found my way with some friends to the Gran Premio del Bicentenario, the grand daddy of Argentine horse races- the Kentucky Derby of Argentina, if you will. It wasn't as flashy or as much of a big-time event as its counterpart in the northern hemisphere, and no one dresses up pretty much at all, but it was still a great time. The hard-core betters reading their magazines that take a PhD to understand were out in force amongst a few thousand casual fans like us. We watched 5 races or so, and placed some bets of course. If you ever want to pick the 4th place horse in a race, drop me a note because I'm extremely good at it. I picked the 4th place horse 4 out of 5 times - needless to say I didn't come out ahead on the day. However, hearing the rapid-fire race announcer relaying the race combined with the intense, quasi-throw-your-program-at-the-track crowd cheering on their horses was pretty comical and made up for any lack of luck. Spanish is a passionate language, but that crowd took it to a whole other level.

It wound up being a tight race - although not a photo finish, but close enough to make it interesting. We had a great view of the awards area, and as soon as the winner crossed the finish line there was the owner jumping around as happy as can be. It was really pretty cool to see a major horse race - I definitely want to get to the Kentucky Derby eventually. We watched one more race after the awards ceremony in which about 50 trophies were handed out before calling it good.

That night I headed out to La Noche de los Museos with Laura and some of her friends. This is an event put on by the city that really every city should do- for one night, just about every museum in the city has free entry. As we're in Argentina, when I say for one night I mean until 3am (officially, but there were still lines out the door beyond 3). The buses provide free service as well for the night - all in all a great deal, and the city really took advantage of it.

After getting home as daylight started creeping across the sky, the next day saw me put the finishing touches on an essay (yes I do do work) before leaving to go watch Matias my host-brother perform in a play. It was a play targeting children, as it was a comedy based on the traditional prince-princess plot with the usual jester and evil magician. He and the other two actors got the crowd involved, and it was a great atmosphere and from what I could tell a hit. The theater itself was stark but still had a lot of character- it was a one-room place with a stage, walls covered with locals' art and open space filled with plastic chairs for seating. Not quite Carnegie, but no matter - a stage is a stage, and I (and the rest of the crowd) thought Matias did really well as good ol' Prince Charming. Next up for the future oscar-winner is a part in a movie (his first) with apparently a reasonably famous french actress. His career seems to be off to a good start!

As for my career picking the right horse, I'm in a serious slump and there's no end in sight. Jake Plummer took up handball - maybe I'll give volleyball a try.

The End of an Era

The parks here in this city are incredibly underrated. They are few and far in between, but when you stumble on them they are absolutely phenomenal. My local oasis, Parque Centenario, is a circular park right in the middle of town. It has everything, from a soccer field to a skate park to a merry-go-round (Argentines seem to have an obsession with merry-go-rounds, as I see them just about everywhere there is 50 square feet of open space, including the equivalent of the national mall) to an amphitheater to a lake. With ducks. Going to a park is the best way to get a perfect cross-reference of the population of the city. You have your families having a picnic, couples taking a stroll, jugglers and other performance arts people practicing their trade, friends sharing a mate, and several people playing various tunes on the guitar. Don't forget the local entrepreneurs trying to make a mango (buck is to dollar as mango is to peso) by selling superpanchos and ice-cream. When you stop to look around you on a busy day (just about every day the sun is out), the diversity of what's surrounding you is pretty astounding.

Multiply that by a factor of about 10 on the day of the census. A few days ago Argentina took its bi-centennial count of its population, and it was probably the most boring holiday out of them all. Everyone is asked to remain in their homes until one of several-hundred-thousand census workers come around their homes and ask the usual census questions. The entire country is closed from 8pm the night before until 8pm the day-of. Everyone is off of work, but with nowhere to go since everything is closed. I wondered what everyone would do, because those that gave their name and number early in the day couldn't just sit at home all day, this being the social capital of the world that it is. Answer: Parque Centenario. I got there early in the day since all classes were cancelled, and it was pretty empty. I looked up what felt like five minutes later, and I couldn't see the grass. It was a sea of guitar-players, mate drinkers, and guys over 65 in nothing but a speedo trying to get a tan.

The day was not all fun & games for most, however. Néstor Kirchner, the ex-president and husband of the current president Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, passed away that morning. He was quite a polarizing figure, but it didn't seem so that day. Just about everyone I saw or talked to was sorry to see him go. That was before the conservatives came out of the woodwork; a lot of them were actually happy to see him go. It seemed a little twisted and wrong to hear people talk about being happy that someone died, but they take their politics seriously here. Let the record show that exit polls, with 75% reporting, are showing that 99% of the students at UCA (Universidad Católica Argentina) don't care too much for Néstor.

That night a couple of us went against all common sense and decided to head to Plaza de Mayo to see the manifestaciones championing the political agenda and accomplishments of Mr. Kirchner. The subway itself was quite the experience, with people banging on windows and singing patriotic songs all the way into the center of town. It got to such a point that the subway operator gave up stopping at every stop and simply went straight to plaza de mayo. Popping up onto the street brought me face to face with just about every political activist in the city, which means just about everybody. I would say that every political group was represented there, with a multitude of flags, banners, drums, clapping, singing and yelling filling the night air. It was wall-to-wall people down each of the three main avenues leading away from the Plaza. We worked our way over to the barricade in front of la Casa Rosada, which was covered in messages to Cristina and Néstor. People had climbed up just about everything there is to climb. When they opened the barricade to let people in to start lining up to see Néstor lie in state the next morning starting at 8am (we got there at 8:30, so these people were going to wait almost 12 hours), it was like a stand-by free-for-all at the United Customer Relations desk. We retreated back to the border of the plaza, spent a few more minutes observing the gongshow before calling it a night before things had the opportunity to get really out of hand.

The next day was even more out of control. People were lining up in what I later found out was a 7-hour line to see Néstor at la Casa. The line probably went for about 10 blocks, winding down several streets. There were so many political parties and groups marching down la Avenida de Mayo it seemed as if a revolution was around the corner. For all I know, there was. When you cancel the league football matches for the weekend, that's going to cause some problems, no matter what the reason. As I walked down the street I couldn't help but notice all of the posters saying 'Fuerza Cristina!' (Strength, Cristina) or 'Néstor con Perón, Cristina con el pueblo' (Néstor with Perón, Cristina with the people). If they could mobilize the same effort that put the hundreds of thousands of posters up in one night to tackle some of the other city problems, like maybe collecting dog poop, this city would have an even brighter and glorious future than the one it already has.

All in all, the whole experience was pretty amazing. The closest thing I've ever seen in terms of scale of a public reaction to something political was the inauguration of President Obama. Even then, I feel like the porteños took it to a whole other level. It remains to be seen where Argentina will go from here, though. Mr. Kirchner was a key part of Cristina's administration; he was often called the power broker behind the government, the one who made the wheels turn and who kept this oft-politically unstable country together. All I can say is whoever raises the minimum height for restaurant awnings will have my vote.

Rite of Passage

Strike of the Day: Trash Collectors

Many people don’t understand just what an ordeal it is to walk down a sidewalk here in Buenos Aires. You seriously put your life on the line. Let me begin with the fact that half of the time I never know what street I'm on because either there is no street sign or if it exists it's sawed in half. So after getting excited about the fact that there actually is a street sign, everyone knows I'm a tourist when I make five circles around it just to make sure it's not bent. Out comes the 'Guia T'.

As I continue walking, it becomes evident very quickly that every dog owner thinks that the sidewalk is the perfect place for man’s best friend to take care of business. They also believe that leaving the product there must add to the overall aesthetic beauty and sweet scent of this city. The sidewalks are such a minefield that I spend no time actually looking where I’m going but rather spend all of my time feeling like Indian Jones trying to work his way through the Temple of Doom. I must mention though that the dogs are considerate; they only take care of business on one half of the walkway. Someone give them a medal!

Speaking of dogs, it is not uncommon to see professional dog walkers roaming the streets with anywhere from one dog to a number in the mid-teens. The legal limit per dog walker is the stuff of legend; I’ve heard anywhere from 9 to 14. I use the number of dogs to measure prestige, skill and overall ability of the walkers. If you’ve got double-digit dogs, you’re pretty high on the totem pole and you've earned my respect.

Before you devote all of your time to looking out for dog turds, you have to keep an eye on what’s in front of you. Especially if you’re tall. The awnings in front of stores don’t really take into account anyone over 6 feet. They generally have a metal pole run through them to hold them down in the wind, which is all well and good, but when that pole is about 6’2” off the ground it’s a little problematic. For reference, that comes square between the eyes on yours truly. I haven’t hit one yet, but if I do I think I’ll be laid out like a linebacker takes out a wide receiver running across the middle.

Once you’ve made it past the awning, the sidewalk comes back into play. The sidewalks in Buenos Aires change style with every building, as does the quality. More often than not it’s in the tile style, which is great. However, many times these tiles are loose, and stepping on one puts Old Faithful to shame. To cap it off, as I start spewing Spanish I look down and notice that I hit a mine in the dung minefield, and I just walk away defeated. I’ve shown up to class with one leg completely soaked from a shooting jet of water displaced by the tiles. No one asks any questions; I think everyone understands.

Some people just don’t even want to brave the sidewalks, and they order their coffee and medialunas to be delivered. So as I’m busily navigating geyser central, I have to avoid the waiters in full tuxedos with trays carrying fine china and croissants. They march down the street as if they were headed over to the corner table by the window. Someone give that guy a good tip, because he’s moving twice as fast as I am and getting there with clean shoes.

When I finally have time to look around (i.e. when I’m standing still at a stoplight before seriously risking my life by trying to cross the street), I notice that the sidewalks are full of people selling everything under the sun. That's after I see 5 same-line buses in a caravan go by and stop at the bus stop which is a sticker stuck to a street lamp. There are the newspaper guys who sell all of the regular dailies and every magazine known to man, the 24-hour flower shops who’s flowers never seem to go bad or wilt no matter what time of day or day of the week, the peanut roasters who make the world's best roasted peanuts, the strawberry stands that are basically just what seem like leftover strawberry crates propped up against the wall, and the people selling toys that wouldn’t make the Happy Meal Set at McDonalds next to knock-off nike socks and phone chargers. It really is a busy place with people from all walks of life. There is never a dull moment; I could walk the streets of Buenos Aires for hours.

If you can walk a block unscathed, you've successfully become part of the porteño lifestyle and culture. Welcome to the party.