Los Piropos

If you´re a woman who has been in Buenos Aires longer than 10 min, you will be familiar with piropos. Los Piropos. Google translates it as compliments. Google is being generous. Piropos here are more like propisitions, cat calls, blatent staring... don´t make me spell it out-- you get it. And it happens to me all the time. This isn´t because I am particularly good looking, or because I wink at them, or wear anything provocative, it is just a habit that is engraned into their masculine culture. And it´s disgusting. I understand the need to acclamate to other cultures, but at some point, it is still my body and I would prefer it not be verbally oggeled every time I hike to class.

There are three main types of piropos

1. The public piropos- These are usually loud and spoken in a consentual group setting such as construction workers, or a group of guys walking together, even old men on a bench. As unnerving as it is to be called hermosa by multiple men at one time (especially at night), I have come to understand that these piropos are less about me and more about the men asserting their masculinity to one another. Often times they don´t address you directly, it´s almost as if they´re discussing how good lunch looks. Uncomfortable, though it is, these are not, in my opinion, the worst type of piropos.

2. The non verbal piropos- These consist on many types of noises, including horns, whistles, and the most common, what I refer to as ´the dog call.´ The dog call sounds a bit like you´re trying to keep Fido from running into a busy street. Something like tshhht tshht tshhht. This can be coupled with wistling and other verbal piropos as well, but is often deemed sufficient by it´s user.

3. The whispered piropos- The final and most unsettling piropos is the whispered piropos. This can happen at anytime, and anytime, has the capacity to render it´s victim instantly nauseous. It most often happens when passing someone on the street, when a ´gentleman´ (a term very lightly used) will lean just close enough to your ear to allow you to be the sole recipient of his affection. Que linda, Que hermosa, are mild forms of these ´compliments.´ It also happens on the train, often in crowded cars. The most unfortunate part of the man behind you whispering these things is that you must endure it for the duration of the train ride.

Argentina is world renown for it´s beautiful men. And this is not untrue. The men here are indeed beautiful. ¨They have good genes,¨ my host mother always says. Maybe there´s something in the water, maybe it is genetics, or maybe copious amounts of carbs aren´t as bad for us as nutritionists would have us believe, regardless the men (and the women but I will post about that later) are muy guapo. So what´s the problem? Why do I care if beautiful men throw their words at me? When it comes to the issue of piropos, I can´t help but feel that there is an attribute of respect missing. An understanding of gender and it´s arbitrary nature that is very much missing from the worldview. Argentina is a country with a woman president, rich in historically prominent women, and yet, they are still regarded carnally. As if becoming a prominent woman figure strips you of femininity. My main spot of bother is that the women here don´t seem to mind. They parade themselves proudly brushing off the piropos expectantly. They are objects of desire and they know it., but why do they consent. This is up to interpretation and has, I´m sure, many answers. But this post is about the men. Why has this become an accepted practice among the men. Men of all ages, social standings, and occupation (and trust me, there´s nothing more unsettling that a policeman hitting on you). Not every man does. In fact there are many men that don´t. But they fail to counter the massive number of men that do. What could motivate these men? What are they getting out of it? These women they hit on are not turning around, changing their plans and making out with them on the spot because of this. In fact they are rarely acknowledged. Neither do I acknowledge them. But just once I would like to stop in my tracks, turn around walk back and ask, ¨Why?¨

Heading to class again, wish me luck.

As always
Besos,
Hil

 

A Day in the Life

The other day, okay, last week (but really... what is on time here?) I went on what is fondly known in the Study Abroad world as a 'day excursion.' This is a quaint little misnomer usually used as an excuse to bus 200 U.S. college students to one place and try to give them a 'cultural' experience. So off we drove, in three charter busses to the 'rural' outskirts of the city to experience a "Dia Del Campo" or Day at the ranch. Now before you get any ideas of bull fights, spurs and rodeo clowns let me clear one thing up. The gaucho lifestyle (yes gaucho like the pants), is a highly romanticized yet important part of Latin American History. For hundreds of years, the gauchos had their own ways of governing, organizing, and just overall living. And they still do. But one thing that is certain about Argentina is the cyclical nature of it's economy, and with more and more tourists looking for authentic venues, (You're forgiven Anthony Bourdain) many of these larger ranches have revised their weekly gaucho duties to include hosting large groups of tourists and leading them through a true gaucho experience. Our hosts did a fine job of showing us a representative form of gaucho life. What we really did was eat, watched dancing and horses, chased peacocks, and took a carriage ride around a meadow. It was fantastic. Asado vegetables, handmade pasta,  and birds for days. So what is it like on a real gaucho ranch? To be honest, I have no idea. It was a beautiful day, and a fantastic venue, and I had a lot of fun, but I have already accepted the fact that there are many avenues of life I will never be able to fully appreciate, and this, I now know, is one of them. The gaucho lifestyle is more than a tourist trap, it is a slice of history, and an ongoing story of a people who were forced to write their own journey, fight westernization and create new lives for themselves in the aftermath of invasion. They were warriors on a battlefront of injustice on their land, and those same people, learned to capitalize on things the nation came to rely on: meat, yerba, leather, soy. The beautiful part of this story is that they are still out there. They have positioned themselves as an iconic part of Argentine identity, and it is because of this, they also must preserve it's integrity. 

I had a wonderful time anyway, and as I told my friend Preston, while trying desperately to convince him that a 10 min carriage ride was worth his time, "Sometimes you just have to be a tourist."

So long story long: here's a video and some pictures: 

This was the church we stopped to see. It was pretty. We were there for an hour. 

Those are gaucho pants, Ladies and Gentlemen 

Cayotes, they taste like cucumbers.

This gives a new meaning to the term Chicken Run.

Las Floras

Hungryyy

Quack

Bahaha

A big thank you to Andrea. Half of these pictures belong to her and her wonderful photo skills.

Back to homework, there seems to be no end to it these days. 

As always, Besos

Hil

Sometimes we study

As fascinating as my journeys no doubt are, there are many things about my life that are far less exciting. I would love to name my trip, "The Ultimate Vacation" or "Hostel to Hostel" (remind me to keep that one in mind for a book title.) Nevertheless,  I moved to Argentina under the title, "Study Abroad", and so, It is with duty I will entrust you with the little discussed aspect of being a student in the city.

I attend the University of Belgrano. Attending a college in the heart of one of the wealthiest (read: safest) neighborhood of the city may seem concheto, but tell a local you're a foreigner, and they can almost guess that you attend UB. Why? UB is a school based on international students, and their funding. This is not to say it is not a good experience, but come here expecting to be a novelty with your foreign identity, and you will be sorely disappointed. Most of the local students, attend school as a secondary supplement to working. It is not a full time job for them, and while getting out of class at 10:00 pm may seem odd to those of us used to having our evenings free, it is not uncommon for these students to leave the classroom much later.

My day at the University begins at 1:00 p.m. each day, but with the late mornings comes the complimentary late nights, my sleep schedule has simply shifted six hours or so. The classes here are an hour and a half long, but since they're only twice a week, it doesn't seem to drag. There are few books to buy however the University has taken to printing oversized stacks of scholarly articles as dictated by the professors and we are required to buy a, for lack of a better word, bundle of said copies. Therefore, much of our time is spent lugging around a plastic bound 'book' of excerpts by Sarmiento and Amerigo Vespuci.

Unlike Universities in the U.S. There is no campus. The students live either at home or in apartments, though the former is most common, and rarely 'go away' to school. Their degree, as I mentioned before, is often secondary to their life.

As for us visiting students, we are given our own few floors (more to keep the sanity of the locals I'm sure) and the halls of los pisos 9 and 10 are filled with conversations in French, Italian, Spanish, English and Portuguese.

The coursework is relatively the same, for me at least. There are many required readings, and discussions on specific texts, group presentations, and oral and written assignments.  The interesting thing about the classes, are the professors themselves. Some are PhD's from Princeton, and others are simply foreign language teachers. Their stories, observations and insight on the culture, history, language, and lifestyle of Argentines is the closest and most in depth insight I can hope to have on the people here, and I'm eating it up.

I'm studying Gender History in Latin America, Cultures and Civilizations in Latin America, Argentine Economy and Spanish Grammar and Speaking. It sounds like a handful but it is relatively manageable. Midterms will be here before we know it. I'd better get a move on. I leave you with a few (stolen) photos. For Flickr credit click here here and here)

This is the main building of UB and the only building most International students ever enter. 19 floors.

Most Classrooms are half this size, but this one is the largest. 

The view from the 10th floor. That big white house? That used to be Albert Einstein's house. It now serves as the Australian Embassy. 

As always
Besos,
Hil

“You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is where we are not...”


 F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

San Carlos Bariloche, Patagonia, Argentina.

Snow. Penguins. Glaciers. Overpriced Puffy Jackets. All are expectations of Patagonia.

How about the world's largest chocolate easter egg? A toboggan? Two perfectly placed Refugios? Hippie Mecca?

Patagonia. The end of the world. It sounds so impressive. Patagonia is massive. There is both a Chilean and an Argentinean Patagonia, the latter encompassing just over one third of the country's land mass. Ecosystems from pampas to glaciers are represented. Where within this expanse did I end up? The small Swiss inspired town of Bariloche. Located on the far west side of the country, Bariloche is close to the Chilean border, nestled in a little mountain range known as the Andes. Geography lesson over.

It was with this much knowledge (probably less) that seven, underprepared students from UB, bus tickets in hand started our journey with a 24 hour bus ride. Seven days of freedom from the city, from traffic, from homework, from dog poop. We were ready. As much as I would like to sit you down and force you to look at all 1,300+ photos, I think I'll just give you the highlights.

Hostel Pudu, a hostel in the form of a hippie commune run by three brothers

The streets of Bariloche

Down by the lake

Cooking a stir fry dinner for seven is no small task

The following day we tackled the day hike Frey at Catedral Cero

Made it. 

The Refugio Frey at the top of Catedral Cero surrounded by backpackers. 

Lake beside the hostel. It was so beautiful we stayed a little too long.

As beautiful as the sunset was, it also meant we were hiking in the dark. We were able to make it back down the mountain with just enough time to light the way, we did not however make it back in time for our bus. One long (expensive) taxi ride later we were back at our hostel getting ready for the next day.

After a visit to the Fenoglio Chocolate factory, we took a chairlift to a hilltop viewpoint.

I'd say it was worth it.

The whole group left to right

Zoe, Tiffany, Me, Monae, Linette, Andrea, Preston

And this is how we got down the hill. Yep.

Being ambitious young things, the next day, we decided a leisurely bike ride around one of the nearby lakes. What we failed to realize was that we would be tackling a road, not a trail and mile long hills on steel mountain bikes.  

Luckily this view was right around the first bend, because thats as far as we got. 

Instead, we opted for a short hike to another hilltop that offered some spectacular 360 views. We enjoyed some hot chocolate and coconut cake before descending. 

The following day brought Preston, Tiffany and Me to the trailhead of Laguna Negra, a two day hike that we had decided on Midnight the night before. There was a slight drizzle, and fog, and we were quite underprepared, but the views were well worth it. 

The first third of the trail meandered along this river. 

An Argentine answer to muddy trails

A very damp Fall in the Andes

"This can not be real life" -Tiffany

Hiking in the snow in our tennis shoes and leggings

After rain, sleet, 0 degree weather and 85 mph winds we finally came across our home for the night: Refugio Italia

The sleeping situation

This is what everyone else was wearing.

Trust me when I say that I am rarely without words, but these views rendered me speechless.

Victory Beer

Back in Bariloche for the final day

While we were there, they had their annual Chocolate Festival, and built the biggest chocolate easter egg in the world. No big deal. (It says Happy Easter on it)

Arboles Arrenyas 

Overall it was not only a worthwhile but a breathtaking experience. It felt like home. The mountains, the air, the smiles. The people even stopped for you at the crosswalk (what's up Moscow!). All the vistas even made me nostalgic for all eleven of those Glacier National Park trips. I've only been back in the city a few days and I still can't encompass in words the beauty of this part of the world. 

Usually for a trip I make a video, this time, I'm making two. But because my mother keeps reminding me (thanks mom!) that I am also down here to study, I need to prioritize some much neglected reading before I can play around with the video footage. I will try to have them up by Friday. Also many (read: most) of these photos were "donated" by other members of my traveling group, so a huge thank you to Preston, Tiffany, and Andrea for their natural photography skills. Now where was I? Ah... homework. 

Nos Vemos

Besos, 

Hil