While the Malba and the National Fine Art Museum were wonderful, there were no other great museums and no beaches; there was only the street. So it was time to embrace my status as an anonymous derelict and really explore the place, every last alley. When I saw an interesting-looking street, I walked down it; when I saw an open door, I entered. And at the end of a particularly constructive day, I rewarded myself with delicious Argentine steak and desserts…
I thought about different ways that I could make money while I walked: I could sell electronics, since the argentine government is still using protectionist policies (import tariffs), and the general trend of less developed countries is to use older technologies; moreover, Americans have an affinity and money (or a credit line) to buy the newest products; thereby, creating less value for the older, whereas less developed countries don’t have the money, but a need for the older products to reach the level of development in the US. I could send clothing home since these people have keen sensibilities as to what style is. I could teach English since there is worldwide demand to learn it. I discovered from talking with other expats that shipping things into this country was hard, that the cost of small shipments out of this country was too expensive, and that English-language schools were largely staffed by second- and third-generation Anglo-Argentines.
There are other problems. Contrary to my expectations, the language is proving to be one of them. I thought it was going to be easy to learn another language, since I studied economics, which is another language in itself, and because I had to learn fancy math and commands for computer programs. But the pronunciation and the syntax is giving me a hell of a time. Even my foolproof backup plan of volunteering was looking doomed. First, to volunteer in South America they wanted money from me. Second, there were no opportunities that would help me in my future; besides, experience.
I got tired of spending endless days walking around the city, but mostly I was getting tired of making an ass of myself every time I opened my mouth, so I began whiling away the timeless time with my headphones on riding buses around the city. On several occasions, I went from one end of the city to the other and back. Every ten minutes or so, vendors climbed aboard and sold maps, cards, or hair ties. This was the most luxurious and unapologetically antisocialtour of BA; it only cost twenty-five cents.
Through-out the city is plazas, dry fountains, and sculptures. On one bus, I discovered Recoleta, an old-money neighborhood in a city of nothing but old money. In this area something like South America melted away into something like Europe; the buildings became more exuberant and more carefully crafted, and instead of empty facades, the entire structures were ornate and chiseled. Every block there seemed to be fine cheese and wine stores. But just as I was thinking that this might be the “Paris of South America” described in all the tourist books, the bus violently turned onto Avenida Las Heras, a gridlocked canyon of blue smoke and haze, and a deafening roar of decrepit bus engines trumped the music playing through my earphones.
I thought about different ways that I could make money while I walked: I could sell electronics, since the argentine government is still using protectionist policies (import tariffs), and the general trend of less developed countries is to use older technologies; moreover, Americans have an affinity and money (or a credit line) to buy the newest products; thereby, creating less value for the older, whereas less developed countries don’t have the money, but a need for the older products to reach the level of development in the US. I could send clothing home since these people have keen sensibilities as to what style is. I could teach English since there is worldwide demand to learn it. I discovered from talking with other expats that shipping things into this country was hard, that the cost of small shipments out of this country was too expensive, and that English-language schools were largely staffed by second- and third-generation Anglo-Argentines.
There are other problems. Contrary to my expectations, the language is proving to be one of them. I thought it was going to be easy to learn another language, since I studied economics, which is another language in itself, and because I had to learn fancy math and commands for computer programs. But the pronunciation and the syntax is giving me a hell of a time. Even my foolproof backup plan of volunteering was looking doomed. First, to volunteer in South America they wanted money from me. Second, there were no opportunities that would help me in my future; besides, experience.
I got tired of spending endless days walking around the city, but mostly I was getting tired of making an ass of myself every time I opened my mouth, so I began whiling away the timeless time with my headphones on riding buses around the city. On several occasions, I went from one end of the city to the other and back. Every ten minutes or so, vendors climbed aboard and sold maps, cards, or hair ties. This was the most luxurious and unapologetically antisocialtour of BA; it only cost twenty-five cents.
Through-out the city is plazas, dry fountains, and sculptures. On one bus, I discovered Recoleta, an old-money neighborhood in a city of nothing but old money. In this area something like South America melted away into something like Europe; the buildings became more exuberant and more carefully crafted, and instead of empty facades, the entire structures were ornate and chiseled. Every block there seemed to be fine cheese and wine stores. But just as I was thinking that this might be the “Paris of South America” described in all the tourist books, the bus violently turned onto Avenida Las Heras, a gridlocked canyon of blue smoke and haze, and a deafening roar of decrepit bus engines trumped the music playing through my earphones.
Coming home from Puerto Madero we drove through Recoleta, and one of the buses spontaneously combusted.
I wanted to investigate how from one block of elegance to another block there would be such dramatic discrepancies. I was interested in the evolution of the neighborhoods. I wanted to know if its elegance was ever going to be restored. My curiosity overwhelmed me.
Again, the language barrier limited my options, so I decided to research the different types of architecture in Buenos Aires. There was everything from colonial to modern. I wrote down the different defining characteristics of each style, and I got back onto the street to walk some more. As I walked, I identified the architectural styles of the buildings.
For hours I entertained myself with this ridiculous game. But I was getting tired of it, and finally when I realized I ain’t gonna play no more, I was overcome by a deep, despairing sadness. I think that this was the moment when I decided that I either needed to get a life, do something else, or go back home to California.
Desperate, I searched the internet for ideas. I called Dad and told him that I was going to enroll in language school on Monday. He was happy to hear the news and on Monday I started.
1 comment:
Oh my gosh. You are truly having a wild adventure. I am so pleased that you are keeping up with your traveler's log. My thoughts are with you Jonathan.
love!
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