Sweet Home Buenos Aires

I think it's a good time to talk about home life, as I've gotten so many requests and haven't actually talked too much about it. When I was originally deciding on where to study abroad, it really came down to Barcelona or here. The catch with Barcelona, however, is that I wouldn't be doing a homestay. And that, ladies and gents, would have been a shame because so far this experience has been one-of-a-kind.

My day always begins with a mixture of corn and frosted flakes and the news. The morning news consists of crime, weather and traffic. That's about it. If you want a bright start to the day, the news is probably not your cup of tea. Perhaps the best part of breakfast is the fresh-squeezed orange juice. My host-mom, Tina, squeezes it every morning, which is absolutely unbelievable. I told her that Tropicana is perfectly fine, but she insisted. Maybe United Fruit has left a negative legacy and she refuses to give US fruit companies business - I don't really know. But there are definitely no complaints from this end!

Speaking of orange juice, however, there was a crisis with the fresh-squeezed liquid gold. About a week and a half ago now a new student moved into the house. She's from Colombia, and is a full time student at USAL. She's very nice and will be good to speak spanish with - it will be great to have someone my age with whom to make myself look like an idiot with all of my grammatical errors. But no pain, no gain, right? Anyhow, as soon as she moved in the fresh-squeezed orange juice disappeared and was replaced by tang. This was a serious problem. After a couple days I decided it was time for Laura to go - the loss of the orange juice was just too hard to bear. However I brought a peace offering back from Bariloche (a box of chocolates), and all of a sudden the orange juice was back. Add that to the bowl of fruit that my amazing host-mom gives me now (this started after I cooked dinner for her the other night - she's on a diet, but decided to take a break for some chicken pesto pasta. 'A man will cook for me? Of course I'll take a break!'), and breakfast should now be featured in the michelin guide. All in all, my host mom treats me incredibly well and I couldn't be more grateful.

I have yet to figure out her marital situation, however. From what I understand, she is divorced, but her ex-husband comes over almost every day to have a mate and often stays for dinner. I think trying to clarify the situation might turn incredibly embarrassing with my lack of complete control of the language, so I'm just going to pull out the 'nod and smile' card on this one. The kids are also over often (they're both in their 30s), mainly around dinner time. They know what's up. Conversations often turn into what I would consider heated arguments, but as I'm thinking I better start getting ready to break up a a fight I realize that this is the way people talk here.

Along with the family members there are dogs galore, with Matias the older son bringing his two around several days a week and the ex-husband bringing his golden lab whenever he comes by. I don't know how the lab stays so skinny, because he eats the equivalent of a human meal during dinner every night. He definitely has my host family wrapped around his paw, as he easily devours half a loaf of bread every night. He is not quite at Othello's level though.

For dinner, I am normally the only one that eats anything green. My host-mom makes a plate of salad for me that she has me eat before the main part of the meal. She normally dumps more salt on it than McDonald's does on French Fries, but I really can't complain. It really is my only foray into the vegetable group each day. We normally eat milanesas, pasta, beef, chicken or rice. It is always delicious. Spicy is not a word in the argentinian vocabulary, however; a stew we had the other night was termed muy picante (very spicy) by most, but I personally thought it was full of flavor and a phenomenal soup. Maybe I won't ask to cook some Thai curry. In that case I might find myself swimming back to the northern hemisphere before I can say 'wasabi'. The main event of dinner though is the telenovela, or soap opera, which my host-mom watches like it's her job. There's a lot more blood and violence than I would have thought there would be in a telenovela, and Ramiro (the younger son) and I laugh about how outrageous it is sometimes. Only recently however, after weeks of religiously watching it, did I find out that Tina doesn't really like it too much mainly because often things happen that wouldn't occur in real life. We still watch it anyway, and it actually is pretty entertaining.

All in all, living here at 3708 Hipólito Irigoyen is a tough life. After hearing about the homestay situations of other students on the program, I realized I lucked out with housing. Not that I needed to hear the horror stories to know that - I knew I had a great home for the next 5 months from the very beginning. Even with the temporary disappearance of the orange juice.

Gone Skiing.

(Click 'photos' for all of the Bariloche photos)

Life is tough. The last few days have seen me living it up in Bariloche, Argentina, which is a small mountain ski town in central-southwest Argentina near the Chilean border. I know I said that Salta would be hard to beat, but I think Bariloche now has the yellow jersey and is racing ahead. And it's going to be hard to top.

My travels began with a twenty hour bus ride from Buenos Aires to Bariloche. Let me just take a minute to put that in perspective. For those of you who have flown to Japan, think about it this way: you get there, say hi to the jetway operator, turn around and fly home. Once I thought about it like that, I figured that if they only had chicken or beef on the menu there might be a problem. In fact, I was given three meals on the bus, and had the opportunity to have some wine with dinner. Not bad. I have to add that the bathroom was locked during meal times, though. The reasoning behind that was beyond me. What were we going to do? Throw our cream cheese-covered corn beef down the toilet? They promised us champagne or whisky with the final movie of the night, but I think that was lost in translation because the attendant came around with coffee in styrofoam cups instead. I think I might have insulted him when I took the coffee and then gave it back because I decided not to get wired at midnight. Now when I say movies, I'm talking about the classiest pirated movies you know. The rare editions with half of the screen blocked out by someone's back or those that have the entire picture suddenly go crooked because someone let go of the video camera graced my bus trip.

We passed through La Pampa, which is Argentina's version of the midwest. Flat. Grass. More flat. Some of the passengers would jump off the bus at the most random spots along the way; I was under the impression that it was a bus to Bariloche, but apparently you could get off at Timbuktu, Argentina. The lady sitting next to me got up about 4 hours into the trip. I thought she was going to the bathroom, but when she hadn't returned after a couple hours I figured that either she was being punished for going to the bathroom during dinner or she was going to who knows where out in the middle of the desert.

A couple hours out from Bariloche we entered the Lake District, which essentially marks the end of La Pampa and the start of the Andes and Patagonia. I watched the sun rise over one of these lakes, and the view was unreal. But that was nothing compared with what was to come. Bariloche is set on the shores of one of these lakes (Lake Nahuel Huapi), which happens to be ringed by towering Andean peaks. As I looked up the name of the lake, the article mentioned that Bariloche is located in the "foothills" of the Andes. If these are the foothills, then the big boys must be in a league all of their own.

I took a collectivo along the hilly lakeside streets to the hostel, located on the other side of town (the slow ride took all of twenty minutes). The hostel is set back up on a hill, with a view of the lake and background peaks in the distance. I dropped my pack, changed and bolted for the ski area. I should have expected the bus to take twice as long as I thought, because after all Argentina is on a bit of a different schedule, but I was still chomping at the bit to hit the slopes. I rented some gear and walked back outside into a drizzling rain. Rain. You have to be kidding. I proceeded to look up at the cookies-and-cream slope with dirt galore leading to the main lifts. Combine that with the fact that 75% of the lifts were closed due to 'high' winds, and you have a recipe for a less-than-optimal day of skiing. Maybe my expectations were a little high?

Not all lifts were closed, and that was all I needed to know. I grabbed a half-day pass and got up the slope to find my friends who had come down the night before. We ventured out into the whiteout with an Aussie (he's doing a year long travel deal - it seems like every Australian does it. There most be something in the water - if there is, they should export it) they had met at the hostel and explored the mountain for the rest of the afternoon. There was honestly no wind to be worried about; people would be having a party on #2 at Loveland. It felt great to get some turns in though. And no, I didn't have to pay any change on day 1.

Now many say that Argentina does not exploit their tourism potential very well at all. You wouldn't know that judging by the tourism setup in Bariloche. Or Braziloche, as it's also known. Hundreds of teenagers who have never seen the white stuff are bused from Brazil to Bariloche to look at the snow. No, not to ski, not to snowboard, but rather to ride a chairlift up, sing a song, take a picture, throw some snow around and come back down. OK for a day, maybe. But for a week? If I were them I'd call up my Prime Minister and tell him to lay siege to the Argentinian embassy until I could get on some skis. Or just kidnap Maradona and call it good. But hey, if you could wear matching jackets and get a free backpack, who wouldn't jump on the snowventure?

We spent the evening hanging at the hostel meeting the other travelers, aka ski bums, staying there. The common area/bar is run by two British guys, so you can imagine the craziness that happens on Friday and Saturday nights. Eventually we went out on the town, but didn't stay out too late because we had ambitious ski plans for the next day. Mick, one of the dynamic duo, did stay out late however; as we left the hostel the next morning at 9, he was standing outside holding the door completely plastered. Rough night? Long night.

Saturday was marked by a scavenger hunt to find reasonable snow. All that rain from the day before conveniently froze overnight, so I was tempted to rent some ice skates and try my luck on some of the runs. With fresh snow I think the area is amazing - there are dozens of runs for all skill levels. It's just our luck though that they're getting 15 inches Tuesday night. Oh well! The entire day we were laughing about our skis - they were at least 6 or 7 years old, and the wax job was just atrocious. Globs of wax all over the bottom, with bits missing here and there. We asked the rental staff about it, and all we got was a 'Don't worry about it! It'll be fine.' Gotta love that Argentine approach to life! All the way up until the point I get up close and personal with a tree.

By the end of the day we figured we knew the cause for the Argentine Economic Crisis of 2001. Cerro Catedral has about 25 lifts when 12 will do. Lift lines run parallel, roughly the same distance and are separated by maybe 200 feet. Superfluous spending maybe? Or how about the complete dogleg lift that goes up over a rock face with the towers drilled straight into the rock? Necessary? As such we experimented with many lifts, and many of them were too small for me to fit my skis on the rest bar. I really think they discriminate against tall people in this country. The views from the top of the mountain, though, were unbelievable. I really felt like we were on top of the world. Snowcapped peaks, lakes, small pueblos in the distance were everywhere I looked. I've come to conclude that from what I've seen, Argentina is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been.

We decided to bail on skiing Sunday, just because the poor snow conditions were not making it much fun. Instead, we went for a hike. We found our way to several lakes, and the vistas definitely made it worth bailing on skiing Sunday. Our path was the 'bamboo trail,' which should actually be called the 'bamboo tunnel' for people under 5'5". I spent the majority of the hike hunched over. Did I mention something about discrimination against tall people?

Overall Bariloche was absolutely phenomenal. Do I really have to go back to class? Maybe I'll call up a snow tour company and tell them I can build a really good snowman and throw a mean snow-curveball. I have one condition: downloading is not an option.

'Just Don't Think About It'

If you look for it, there is green stuff here in Buenos Aires. Parks do exist. One probably wouldn't think that by walking the streets, but it's true. I suppose that it does not help that it's winter and all of the trees around the city are bare, but all in all big parks are definitely a minority. However, there is a sizable nature reserve out to the east of the center of town, and we decided to rent some bikes and cruise through it yesterday. It was a great ride. The reserve is huge; we spent two hours on the bike and didn't quite go everywhere. We finally saw the Rio (de la Plata), as well as some extremely colorful birds scattered among all of the bushes and, well, not too many trees. It was nice to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city for a little while. We really could have been anywhere though; riding a bike there felt like riding along the path in Alameda to the ferry. There were even sailboats and container ships out in the Rio to prove it.

Some may question our judgement to ride bikes in this city, but we safely made it the few blocks to the waterfront without incident. On our way we passed a small flea market, and what do you know but one stall was blasting 'The Heat Is On' straight out of Beverley Hills Cop. I couldn't resist riding over, throwing a few fist pumps and belting out a few notes. I instantly made a new friend in the shopkeeper.

Right along the waterfront is a string of parilla (barbecue) stands that stood out like homing beacons for a couple hungry cyclists. We took a break in our Tour de Puerto Madero and all got some choripan at one of the stands. Choripan has to be one of the best creations ever. It is what it sounds: chorizo and bread, but it is one of the tastiest meals that anyone could have. This stand had a table full of condiments, from fresh vegetable salsas to chimichurri sauces to mayonnaise to barbecue sauce. Just buying choripan from this street vendor made me a little nervous, and the fact that the cook's hands were black from who knows what didn't help. I was a little skeptical of the condiments, but I couldn't help but put some of the chimichurri sauce on my choripan. It was phenomenal. It was the best choripan yet, and I've had it a lot. I got back up to get some more chimichurri sauce, but the condiments table was busy with winged visitors. Yes, pigeons were eating the condiments. I turned around and pretended I didn't see that. One of my friends sitting at the table with a mouthful of choripan and some concoction of condiments could only say, 'Just don't think about it.' I could only laugh, because at this point I was committed.

Needless to say, I survived the night. Today saw me cruising through the Sunday Feria in San Telmo. This is the biggest flea market I have ever seen. The main section is in the little plaza towards the southern part of San Telmo, but just about every street in the barrio is lined with vendors. Just about everything you can think of has a price tag; padlocks that weigh several pounds, old license plates, matchboxes, jewelry, knives, leather working tools, you name it it's there. There were musicians galore, and even a TV from 1958 that boasted 3-D and HD abilities. Most of it is clutter, but every now and then there is definitely a diamond in the rough.

Instead of choripan today, I indulged in some empanadas at a busy little kiosk in the market. Everyone was more interested in watching the River game (River is one of the major football teams) on the one TV than eating or serving. Could it be any more authentic? Empanadas, a football match, in the middle of a market? I really don't think so.

Spring Training for Seabiscuit

Last monday I went to class at the first time at La Universidad de Buenos Aires (UBA). This is a university with a student body size bigger than probably 75% of the cities of the world. There are 350 thousand students that attend this prestigious Buenos Aires university. I did the math, and that comes out to about 2.5% of the entire population of Buenos Aires. That being said, that just shows how absolutely enormous this city is. Thankfully, not all students are in the same place at once. That would make Tokyo station at 8am look like a walk in the park. Anyhow, the relevant facultad for my class is conveniently about a 20 minute walk from my house. So, monday morning I made the trek and found myself in the neighborhood of the school. I walked by an open doorway, and peeked inside and saw graffiti absolutely everywhere, and kept walking. A few steps later my mind caught up and actually processed what the graffiti meant, and I thought that might have been it. I looked up at the wall next to me, and there was Facultad de Ciencias Sociales in block letters. Or what used to say Facultad de Ciencias Sociales. Half of the letters were gone and half of what was left were cracked and missing parts. So it wasn't the nice looking building down the block that was actually a hospital? Shame. My first impression of UBA though made me think I might see the inside of that shining hospital at some point anyway.

I walked in, and instantly wondered why Marx didn't do his thing in Buenos Aires. Forget London. Every scrap of free space was either covered by quasi-Communist graffiti, signs spouting socialist slogans, or tables covered with flyers with upcoming demonstrations and solicitations to join some sort of leftist group. 'The Capitalists will pay!' 'We want a worker's party free from authority and government!' and the like graced the walls. I unfortunately don't have any pictures (yet), since I figured taking pictures on day 1 might get me thrown in the gulag. The class I'm taking there is an International Security seminar, which if the first class is anything to go by should be absolutely phenomenal. I'm expecting the professor to cancel class due to strikes at least once during the semester; I hear that's pretty common.

If I'm going to look anything like the workers starring in the soviet propaganda posters, I need to bulk up a bit. So Tuesday morning saw me walking around my barrio visiting several different gyms. I think I found one that will work great. Afterwards, though, as I was walking back I stumbled across a little soccer center that also has a basketball court. Albeit a miniature one, but it has two hoops and is rectangular, which is all that matters. I walk in and talk to the guy behind the bar about playing some pickup ball, and I was told that every night at 8 people play. Awesome. So the next night I come back at 8, all ready to play, and there's a soccer game going on the court. At any other time I would be excited to see that, but watching people kick a ball on the basketball court right then and there was a serious buzz-kill. I walked back inside, and it was the same guy behind the bar. I asked when people play, and he said that the only time basketball is played is at 6:30 on Tuesdays. I don't think he liked me very much for some reason - he didn't really look at me when he was talking. I took the hint and signed up for the primetime slot on ESPN Argentina, called it The Decision II and told the world I would take my services elsewhere.

Thursday saw me testing my last class at UCA- Public Sector Economics. As dull as the name sounds, I think the class is going to be great. It's just a friend and I from the program in a class with about 20 Argentines. The professor is great; we spent the majority of day 1 discussing economic policy changes in the 1930s. By the end of the class I think the US of A was the United States of John and Jake because every time the US was brought up (which was every other sentence) the professor glanced our way. It was the most I've spoken in class so far in Argentina. I've also learned the Argentine equivalent of capiche - chacai? If the A's could win as many games as the number of times my professor said Cachai, making the playoffs would be the least of their problems. The topic material does sound interesting, despite what many may think, and combined with the classroom atmosphere I think it should turn out to be a fun class.

Yesterday I made my way to the Hipódromo in San Isidro, a wealthy barrio in the northern reaches of the city. We took a local train, which is famously unreliable. Maybe it has something to do with the train company not seeming like they have a lot of money because just about everyone jumped the barrier to get onto the platform. I followed a crowd through an open gate both ways, and didn't ever have to use the ticket I bought. If people are still trying to figure out what triggered the economic crisis of a few years ago, go check out Retiro train station.

The racetrack facilities at the Hipódromo are huge - I think it has a capacity of 200,000 people. Unfortunately the UBA student body won't fit there, but no matter. We were there with about 100 other people (it apparently isn't the middle of big racing season), but it was awesome to see some of the races. They measure their races in meters, but we watched a three-quarter mile and a mile race. I'd definitely like to come back when the place is rocking - I'm sure it has to be an unbelievable experience. No bets were made, but I should have put some money down because I called the winning horse both times. Send him to Vegas, ladies and gents!

Where History is Made

I've decided that Buenos Aires is the social capital of the world. They simply just do it right. The day begins with a leisurely desayuno, often simply coffee and tostadas, medialunas ('halfmoons', otherwise known as croissants - I like medialuna better) and a newspaper. The other morning my anfitriona offered me a cup of coffee, and I happily accepted. Little did I know that drinking coffee and continuing to eat cereal is a big no-no, so as she handed me the cup of coffee my cereal bowl disappeared and that was the end of that. It was painful to watch those corn flakes go.

Anyhow, after breakfast, Argentines will then have lunch anywhere between 1 and 3. A typical lunch is a milanesa, which is a breaded meat dish. Now up to this point this is all familiar to us American-types. Where things get a little different is from here on out to the end of the day. Dinner is not until roughly 9:30, and no human in their right mind will put themselves through the hunger pains until that late in the day. The answer? Meriendas, or snacks. From around 5-7pm cafes are absolutely filled to the bream with people having a(nother) coffee or tea, and more medialunas. The beauty in all of this is that one never dines alone. Ever. We have our cellphones and email and text messaging in the US. Here, they simply meet face-to-face over a cup of coffee several days a week. Hmm... which one would I rather have? Don't get me wrong, cellphones are everywhere here, but there isn't the same obsession here as there is up in the Northern Hemisphere.

Also, there is a holiday for just about everything here. Children's Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Aunt's Day (Aunt's Day? Really? I'm assuming there is an Uncle's Day), El Día del Amigo (Which I think is the second best holiday of the year anywhere, after Thanksgiving) and many more. Any excuse to party and relax with friends. Today was El Día del Niño, and there was a big barbecue here at the house. Both kids (+girlfriends), the Mom, Dad and Aunt were all here. Conversation was as passionate as always, with them claiming that my family can't be as crazy as them. I don't know about that...

Over the weekend, I was able to get into La Casa Rosada (Argentina's White House) - they apparently let just about anyone walk in on the weekends. I don't think Ms. Kirchner lives there, and it was the weekend, so the doors were open. We hopped on to the compulsory tour (I can't imagine why they wouldn't want us to just wander around) and were led through various parts of the house by guards in their dress-uniforms that looked like they came from the Napoleonic War-era. One stop on the tour was the main balcony overlooking La Plaza de Mayo, the same balcony from which Perón gave his speeches. Coincidentally, there was a group protesting who knows what marching into the square at the moment we walked onto the balcony - it was pretty neat to watch from there. Speaking of protests though, Argentines will have demonstrations about just about anything. You name it, it probably has been done or is in the cards for the near future. Sometimes it is the most obscure topic - so obscure I honestly can't remember many of them. I would say it's the principal mode of political expression for a general public that is very active when it comes to politics.

After the balcony we were showed to the Presidential offices. As in, the Oval Office of Argentina. I thought, you have to be kidding. It was phenomenal (the last picture is her office). All of the furniture is original, and it's all roughly 100 years old. The office doubles up as the cabinet room; I couldn't help but wonder what kind of discussions had taken place in that room. We had 1 minute tops in the room, but I was grateful for that - I definitely did not expect to be able to see the office at all or get anywhere near it.

The Return of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

Lately, Argentina has been dealing with the recurring problem of bank robberies. It's been a popping up almost daily on the news for the last week or so. Someone last week even robbed a bank 50 meters from a police station, and half of the crew got away. I really don't know what to make of that, but the bankers do. They decided to go on strike to protest the fact that bank security is apparently not about to win any awards for good performance. By they I mean every bank in the country. It just so happened that I, along with some friends, decided to cruise around San Telmo during the day today (the day of the strike) just to check out the neighborhood. As soon as I get out of the subway, I hear 3 loud pops; if someone was trying to make me jump, they really didn't have to use firecrackers. But here was a group of protestors (what I imagine was the warm up for the major league protest later in the day) shooting firecrackers with the equivalent of the White House a few doors down. If that happened in the US, half of the national guard would be on Pennsylvania Ave in about 30 seconds. No one seemed to mind so much here, though.

In the words of Ron White, "I told you that story to tell you this story." About a week ago I got an email from Bank of America saying that they put a hold on my card because there was unusual spending. I checked out my account activity online, and there had been a $14 payment to 'Christians for Jesus.' Definitely not my usual spending habits. So the card was shut down, and plans were put into motion for a new one. The catch was that with it would take over a week for it to get here, and I didn't have enough cash to last me that long. So I looked into wiring some from my account, and fortunately VISA has a service that helps one do that. Everything was put into motion yesterday, and I would have money waiting for me today. This was a very good thing, because my $20 peso wallet was worth just about the amount of cash in it (20 pesos = about $5 USD). But, oh wait! All the banks decided to strike today. For just today. I found the one western union in the city that was not in a bank, and it was at a major post office in a reasonably sketchy part of town. I eventually made it home with some cash, but not after playing Jason Bourne for a half hour.

Classes have started this week, and the shopping period is on. The first class that I tried out was a class at the Universidad del Salvador (USAL). It was a pure nightmare. I should have known that it would be, since it was the only class in the schedule that did not have a classroom mentioned. I arrived a few minutes before the 6:00pm start time, and I asked someone where the classroom was for the course. They said 216. Great! Thank you very much. We get to 216, and it's definitely not right. We find another IFSA student looking for the same class, and he said that he was told 304. Not it either. So I go back downstairs and find out that it's actually in 116. Alright, so we go there. Two German exchange students were holding down the very empty fort; we stayed for a while, and finally figured that this wasn't right. So, we return once again to the secretary, and are told that it actually starts at 7:30, not 6. Well great. So we killed an hour and a half in a cafe around the corner, and returned at 7:30. I go to the secretary and ask where the classroom is, and she says she has no idea what class I'm talking about. Fantastic. It so happened that the person next to me at the counter did know, and she said room 117. We ran up the stairs, only to find that it did start at 6. Welcome to university life in Buenos Aires! It turned out to be a class I probably won't take, so no harm done. The classroom itself was pretty bare; peeling white paint, a blackboard that had its coating starting to come off, and a gridlock of desks all painted by a harsh light from halogen bulbs. A little different from what I'm used to, but it honestly didn't matter. The professor knew her stuff and we all had desks to write on.

The next morning I took a History of the Americas class at the Universidad Católica Argentina (UCA) that was fantastic. It would appear to be pretty standard, but it left a great impression. All the students were eager to discuss the theme of the day (does Latin America have a single identity?). Classes back at Penn are not like this; there is no rapid discussion, no similar passion to express opinion. I remember sitting there thinking, this is unbelievable. I have three other UCA courses to try out next week - hopefully they'll be similar. It's been a somewhat chaotic week with trying all of the classes, with room and time changes that only the argentine students know about and running around to all parts of the city to find the different facultades. Maybe there is a threshold where if I eat enough beef, I'll be in on the secret. To the parrilla!

La Rural

The last few days have been dominated by trying to figure out my course schedule. Trying to sign up for classes at three different universities is not the easiest thing in the world anywhere. Then throw in a foreign language, a schedule that takes a rocket scientist to figure out (multiply that by three, because the course schedule at each school is formatted differently) and the reasonably complicated process of figuring out if I get credit at Penn, and you have the recipe spent for several hours spent staring at a computer screen. I think my anfitriona thinks I have some computer addiction issues because of it.

At this point, Orientation is effectively over, with classes starting today. We still do have the occasional meeting, and our spanish class will continue for a few more weeks (before we start the real castellano class), but it's game time now. I'm about to embark on an ambitious course-shopping plan, so I'll be taking classes at literally all hours of the day for the next two weeks. When I say all hours of the day, that means anytime between 7:45am and 11:00pm. I think the reason behind classes being at really any time of the day (with most of them are in the evening) is that the majority of argentine university students work during the day. I figure I should just bring a sleeping bag, water proof matches and some oatmeal and set up camp in the classroom.

Maradona still is, and always will be, the biggest story on the news. The day after the last post he went on national TV and gave a press conference about his meetings with the AFA regarding his continuing as head coach of the national team. As it can, it got ugly, with Maradona accusing the head of the AFA of lying to him and of being betrayed by various people in the organization. And so began a war of words that continues today. I timed how long the news cycle devoted to the story that night- 30 minutes. I mean, it's interesting and all, and definitely highly relevant, but thirty minutes? That's longer than the State of the Union coverage.

The weekend was busy and relatively sleepless, with many an hour spent wandering the city during the night hours with friends from the program. I also made it to a showing of 'Inception,' which was an amazing movie. It's similar to The Matrix in that it makes you think about reality and our perception of it. I might go see it again just to piece it all together. After the movie I stumbled across a parilla about 20 feet from my front door, which could prove dangerous. It was great; they will probably get to know me by the end of the 5 months. Anywhere I can have a big fat steak, salad and water for $12 can put me on their speed dial. That's if you actually eat the salad. When I ordered the salad, the waiter mentioned something about putting oil on it as a dressing. I didn't really pay to much attention and just said sure, assuming that it would be a balsamic something-or-other, since that has been pretty common. When the salad came out, however, it reeked. It smelled absolutely rotten. I had horror stories of being hunched over a toilet hurling my guts out for days flash through my mind. The salad looked fresh and tasty, but I just couldn't eat it. What I think happened is they wound up putting some sort of cooking oil on it. At least, I hope that's what it was - it did smell pretty bad. Note to self: listen to entire talk on salad. I tried to move it around to at least make it look like I ate some of it.

Yesterday I made it to La Rural, the biggest annual rural exposition in Argentina. It's a huge fair, with sheep, horses, birds, and every type of cattle that walks the earth on display (and for sale, in many cases). These were some of the biggest beasts I have ever seen. We were wondering what happens when one of these cows goes berserk; does it run 50 feet and collapse from exhaustion? Can it actually run? They are just pure mass. Many gauchos were there, in their cultural dress; hats, ponchos, knives. They don't wear cowboy hats; they're either beret-like hats or black hats that look like something the FBI agents in 'The Sting' wear. They really are one of a kind, and hard to explain. There were also several judging events going on, from horse and buggy events to what looked like mounted police with spears and sabers. Pretty neat stuff. If it had anything to do with ranches and rural life, it was there.

Following La Rural I made my way to a polideportivo to play my first soccer in Argentina. It was with mostly kids from the program, but it was still fantastic nonetheless. It was a spot almost identical to the place I found around the corner from my house here in Almagro. I got a solid 2 hours in of some futból. It's in the cards for next Sunday as well; if anyone asks, I had an absolutely horrendous time. We did get a ride back into the center of town by one of the Argentinian guys we played with. We found ourselves in the back of tin shell of a van with half of us sitting on the floor and the other half on little half-benches along the side. People get abducted in vans like these. But the guy was really friendly, and I think all ten of us could have overpowered him anyway.