The Alpha and the Amoebas

Lamentably, it’s been a while since I’ve recounted to the public my thrilling tales of student life in Argentina. I’ll attribute this primarily to my inability to use the English language anymore; Spanish has taken the place of many words and phrases. If my English was a well-constructed brick house, Spanish is the drunken sub-contractor replacing my quality bricks with toasted cow pies. The structural integrity is still there, but it’s not quite as pretty as it used to be, and it would probably smell bad in the rain. Now that I’ve completely derailed that metaphor, the secondary reason for my absence was spring break. I went to a town in the mountains called La Cumbre. It was lovely, you should have come. And the tertiary reason for my delay in posting was due to a rekindling of my romance with Bidet. For those of you who are a little slow on the uptake (it’s OK, Mommy still loves you for tax-refund purposes), I was struck by Argentinian lightning again and got food poisoning. To answer the burning question, and let me assure that I now know a good bit about burning sensations, no, I don’t know what caused Round 2 of Super Smash Bowels. But it did make my trip to the mountains a little more exciting. 

Friday morning of spring break, soon after waking up, my tutor Tomas informs me that we’re going to La Cumbre. This in itself was fine because I had been expecting the trip, and the food poisoning was more or less gone. I’m sure it is anxiously waiting to strike again next month in the form of a bad pickle, though. I was informed that I had 20 minutes to get ready, and that his cousin Santiago, our driver, was in a hurry to get to a family lunch. I threw some clothes and things in my bag, said a hasty goodbye to Bidet, and was greeted promptly 20 minutes after the phone call. I’m convinced it was the first and last instance of punctuality in Argentina, and I savored it like a thick slab of unicorn meat with a blue moon. The astronomical occurrence, not the beer. Although the beer would go well with unicorn steak too.

I had ridden with Santiago once before, and I wouldn’t describe the experience as particularly frightening or Bidet-inducing. He liked to drive fast, but he was controlled, and I felt safe. This time, whether because of the diminished intestinal fortitude, or because I had taken stock of my mortality a few weeks prior, or because he was really hungry, Santiago nearly scared the literal shit out of me. I’m not going to say we were going over 100 miles per hour just outside the city, but we were going over 160 kilometers per hour just outside the city. The nail-biting terror that parents feel when their child first learns how to drive and is doing 25 mph in a 20 mph zone? I finally understand that, except I couldn’t do anything because all of my spare energy was spent safeguarding the one pair of pants I brought on the trip so they didn’t get ruined before we arrived. Thankfully, we made it alive, not terribly late, and only one of us had to run to the restroom upon arrival. Tune in next time to find out if Captain Ryan soiled his pants like a 2 year-old or retained the last tattered shreds of his dignity!

Notes:

1.     What’s dignity?

2.     I don’t know whose grave I defiled to earn two bouts of food poisoning, but damn Argentina, cut me some slack. I like Bidet, but not that much. And she hates it when I’m needy.

3.     Santiago really is quite a talented driver. That doesn’t mean I trust the other motorists though.

4.     La Cumbre was awesome. Mountain biking, hiking, and hoodratting were the primary activities in which we participated.

5.     Some of the motorists in La Cumbre probably were not happy with us. For a single payment of $19.95, I’ll tell you why in a private conversation! Hint: It involves fruit and climbing trees.

La Guerra

El sargento Márquez nos dirigió hacía la fortaleza. Como un veterano de más de cincuenta batallas, él era quien tenía más experiencia en nuestro batallón. El Teniente Bolloqui y el Cabo Sironi también tenían experiencia en el campo de batalla, pero su sed de sangre no era tan fuerte como la del Sargento Márquez. Era evidente, aunque era mi primera batalla, que el Sargento estaba en su hogar en medio de violencia. Me alegré de que él estuviera con nosotros; su presencia calmó poco mis nervios. Sin embargo, tenía miedo y el ambiente en el fuerte era frenético. La mayoría de los otros soldados eran veteranos como el Sargento Márquez y las fuerzas especiales, cuyos uniformes se hicieron distintivos, eran aún más fanáticas que mi líder. El Sargento Márquez nos indicó nuestros puestos en el fuerte. Esperamos. Algunos soldados cantaban, algunos otros oraban a Dios por la victoria, y el resto esperaba con ansiedad. En ese tiempo, me asustaban más nuestros propios soldados que el enemigo.

Cambié de idea cuando el enemigo apareció. Como hormigas derramándo se delante de un hormiguero, los otros llegaron al campo de batalla y tomaron sus posiciones. Pero nuestra vanguardia estuvo listo para atacarles, y la batalla empezó. Nuestro ejército era más grande y tenía más experiencia en ese ambiente, pero el enemigo era feroz. En cierts momentos, los otros llegaron muy cerca del fuerte. Los gritos y la sed de sangre aumentaron dentro de nuestras filas en esos momentos, pero una y otra vez, los repelíamos con éxito. ¡Qué feos eran! Se vestían de blanco como salvadores, pero era obvio que eran demonios. Ellos querían destruir nuestros hogares, nuestras familias y nuestro fuerte, pero éramos más fuertes. A pesar de sus ataques de artillería, algunos de los cuales me ensordecieron y de que prendieron fuego en el fuerte, nos mantuvimos firme.

Después de casi una hora, hubo un calma. Yo estaba confundido.

“¿Se terminó la batalla, Sargento?” Él se rió.

“No, soldado raso. El enemigo se está reagrupando. La batalla va a reanudarse pronto.”

El miedo debe haber sido evidente en mi cara.

“No te preocupes, García. Vamos a ganar. No tengo dudas.”

Aunque el Sargento Márquez no tenía dudas, todavía me preocupaba. Yo dudaba de tener la fuerza y la intensidad para ser un soldado grande como Márquez. Pero al mismo tiempo, tenía ganas de luchar una vez más. Cuando el enemigo reapareció, estaba listo para proteger el fuerte con mi vida.

Sus ataques de artillería comenzaron de nuevo, pero el enemigo se desvaneció poco a poco. Eramos más resistentes, y no mucho tiempo después, dimos un golpe paralizante a su ejército. Todos los soldados en el fuerte supieron a la vez y celebramos la victoria inminente. Me da vergüenza decir que la única herida que sufrí durante la batalla fue un golpe de un amigo durante esa celebración. Tuvimos que volver a la batalla poco después, pero los soldados  del enemigo estaban agotados y en una hora, fueron vencidos. Habíamos ganado la batalla. Por primera vez en más que tres horas, me relajé.

“Bien hecho, soldado raso García. Sobreviviste a tu primera batalla. Sos un soldado real ahora.”

“¡Mil gracias, Sargento Márquez! ¡Me divertí!”

Estábamos en extasis la victoria. Nos fuimos del Estadio Mario Alberto Kempes. Club Atlético Talleres había derrotado a Juventud Antoniano uno a cero. Si esa es la vida de una hincha, tengo ganas de ser un de ellos.

The Sweet Embrace of Near Death

If we’re all being honest with ourselves, the opportunities that the world has to kill us during the course of a normal day are staggeringly high. Mortality is frightening though, and we try to push those thoughts out of our minds so that we aren’t absolutely crippled with fear. Most people have a limit at which the potential risk of snuggling with the earthworms outweighs the potential enjoyment of a given activity. With apologies to you all for that somber interlude, and even more apologies to my parents who might have to go to Rent-A-Son for graduation this December (Kidding! I hope!), we’re going to take a quiz on the danger level of this past weekend’s activities. Initial betting is strongly encouraged; the status of my life insurance policy is currently “Don’t Die” and someone might as well make some money off of me if I do kick the bucket. Of the following four options, please choose what you consider to be the most dangerous. Remember, there are no wrong answers:

1.     Horse race on an unpaved road

2.     Local soccer game

3.     Talking to strangers

4.     Riding in the back of a pickup truck

If you chose “Talking to strangers,” you clearly misunderstand how study abroad works, and, for all intents and purposes, have chosen the wrong answer. You will be taking Communication 100: Remedial Communication Studies, Emphasis on Throat Noises and Mouth Movements. Everyone else may continue reading to learn which of the remaining three choices is the most dangerous. The answer may surprise you. But it probably won’t.

3. Coming in at third place on the mortality scale is “Riding in the back of a pickup truck.” While this is very much illegal and very much something I sort of think about not doing once in a while, the convenience factor is too large to ignore. Sometimes our driver is even responsible. Ok, not really, since we managed to fit 17 people into the truck that one time and drove for 30 minutes. Ha, I’m just kidding! It was 18 people and the ride was significantly longer. I’m such a scamp! But we’re all still alive, so no one back home should get mad at me or consider taking me out of their will for violating that “grossly negligent” clause we discussed before I left. Not yet at least. There’s more to read.

2. In second place is “Horse race on an unpaved road,” and it was jockeying hard for first. I’m sure that pun made some of you wish the race had offed me, but the horse was strong with me that day. And yes, I have been waiting weeks to bust that one out, thank you for asking. Anyway, there’s not really much to say about this one. Two of us may have raced horses. The horses may have run into each other one time. The other racer may have almost got thrown once or twice. Someone’s horse may have relieved itself at a particularly inappropriate post-race juncture. Just a standard Sunday afternoon in Argentina as far as I can tell.

1. The dark horse candidate (still got it.) for this competition was the soccer game, because Americans tend to associate sporting events with belligerently drunk, rowdy fans. American games miss the crucial part of many worldwide soccer games, which is militant violence. To set the stage, I went to a soccer game with three Cordobeses (people who know what they’re doing). This was not a Superclasico (think USC vs. Clemson), nor was it a Clasico (think Clemson vs. FSU). It was just a standard league game, something along the lines of a Clemson vs. Wake Forest, and the stands were only half full. Knowing all that, I thought it would be a mild affair, even if we were sitting with the hinchas (hooligans) and it was standing room only. I thought like an idiot; I should have brought my riot gear and extra-absorbent nappies.  Our tickets, courtesy of my brave, miraculously-still-alive friend Emi, were bought from the mafia, which, I cannot stress enough, was an actual mafia that actually kills people. During the first half, a couple flares were lit. No big deal, I’ve seen that happen on TV. Then someone threw a few noise grenades. Then someone threw a few more noise grenades 10 feet from us. I think I was disoriented by halftime because everyone else seemed very much unconcerned, while I had a sinking feeling in my diaper. By the end of the game, I had survived 4 close encounters with the grenades, and my head was bleeding from an encounter with an exuberant hincha when we scored a goal. You’d better believe I’m going back.

Notes:

1.     Horses are fun, but I still think they’re some of the dumbest, most terrifying creatures alive. Whoever decided that breeding a breakneck tank around that much stupidity was a good idea must have been part horse himself.

2.     The more I examine that activities I do, the more I think I’m turning into a redneck. I’m only a Bud Light and a Confederate Flag tattoo away from a full conversion.

3.     I swear everything is probably safer than I make it out to be.

4.     The soccer game was amazing. I’m terrified to think about what would happen if I went to a game that was sold out.

5.     There is no 5. I’m just happy to be alive.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream Because We Had Too Much Wine

 

This past weekend marked our first overnight group trip, which means it was also the first time the Porteños (people from Buenos Aires) raised the terrorism alert level from Green to Orange this year. Those poor bastards. In hopes of capturing a historical moment in the destruction of American-Porteño relations, I decided to keep scrupulous tabs on the trip and how likely we were to be imprisoned. However, after learning that I was functionally illiterate following the bus ride to Buenos Aires, I decided to keep scrupulous tabs on myself because that seemed like something most 3-year olds could accomplish. I broke down my wellbeing into ability to speak Spanish, capacity to walk short distances unaided, desire to maim, incapacitate, or commit manslaughter, and miscellaneous, which changed depending on the day. After reading this, I’m sure you will all agree that I had no business being out in public by Sunday; by most definitions I was a walking hate crime, and we should all thankful that food has a calming effect on me.

Thursday Night, 10:00 PM.

Everything is sunshine and puppies at the bus terminal. I’m running on a legitimate amount of sleep, and I have just eaten. I dread the bus ride because I’m statistically more likely to be struck by lightning while winning the lottery than sleep in a vehicle, but I will not be daunted. I will curl up in a ball and cry my way through this bus ride like a man, and tomorrow I will sustain myself with caffeine, food, and more crying. Your move, Buenos Aires.

Spanish Ability: 9/10. Puedo hablar muy bien ahora, gracias!
Physical Capacity to Walk: 10/10. Put my legs in, coach. I’m ready to sit.

Murderous Intent: 3/10. I’ve been told that buses are inanimate, but I would consider shivving one in the radiator right now if there were a better travel option.

Body Odor: 3/10. My dinner featured heavily in garlic and onions. I expect disgruntled passengers by the end of the night. Nevertheless, I showered today and recently applied deodorant. Am I not merciful?

Friday Night, 10:00 PM.

It was a Christmas miracle. I managed to sleep on the bus for 4 hours, which may have saved the lives of upwards of 300 Porteños. Today we toured a lot, and I would consider my legs significantly shot, but for dinner we were served wine. I think there was food too, but my memory is hazy at this point, and the bottle is only half finished. I’m telling myself it’s an insult in Argentine culture to leave that bottle unfinished, because that’s what my inner frat boy is telling me, and sometimes I can’t differentiate between the two. They just look and sound so much alike, you know?

Spanish Ability: 15/10. Che hombre, debemos salir al boliche por toda la noche, boludo! Estoy gracias en la casa de tu mama, jaja! Verdad.

Physical Capacity to Walk: 0/10. What strength I had left after the tour has safely been eliminated by the wine. Jesús, take the wheel. Safely in your weathered taxi-driving hands.

Murderous Intent: 1/10. Unless it’s a crime to commit wineslaughter, I’m innocent of all charges, occifer.

Kidney Defense: 10/10. My kidneys have remained secure in my back region, and my newfound technique of spinning around violently and at random intervals ensures that no thief will have an easy time of cutting them free. I’m watching you, Jesús the cabdriver…

Saturday Night, 10:00 PM.

Alright, judging by the people around me, I’m pretty sure I’m still in Argentina. And we’re at dinner again, so that means I’m in the right group, because I’m pretty sure we’re always eating. But oh god, no, that waitress person is coming straight for me, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s probably going to speak Spanish at me. No, no, I can handle this. I got 5 hours of sleep last night. And there’s somehow more wine in this country, even though I’m convinced our group drank literally all of it last night. Wine sustain me, here goes nothing.

Spanish Ability: 5/10. Me darías un bistec con almohada por favor? También me gusta ir a la playa durante calabaza, de nada. Verdado. Nailed it.
Physical Capacity to Walk: 3/10. More sitting today has ensured that my legs still function. The wine is again attempting to sabotage this ability, but I will not be denied. There are stairs to climb at the hotel, and I remember that fact tonight.

Murderous Intent: 4/10. I killed it when I bought this dashing long-sleeved collared shirt! I may strangle someone with it too if I don’t get 6 hours of sleep tonight.

Ebonics Learned: 9/10. Although my delivery is stilted and still very much in the “Honkey” spectrum of the dialect, I have learned some key phrases like “She’s giving me Christmas,” and “I’m not about that life.” Damn, it feels phenomenal to be a gangster.

Sunday Night, 10:00 PM.

On bus. Go home now. Word hard. Spanish fail. Sleep bueno.

Spanish Ability: -2/10. No, YOU shut up and give me the hamburguesa with queso, por favor!  Does no one speak American around here!?

Physical Capacity to Walk: 0/10. I believe I was carried to my bus seat. There is no conformation of this aside from the shoulder marks embedded in my stomach. Those could be from anything.

Murderous Intent: 9/10. In most countries, I would be considered feral right now and put down for society’s sake. Thankfully, I’m not in most countries.

Bus Loathing: 9^3/4 /10. Ha, Harry Potter. Nailed it again.

The Horse Is Strong With This One

In some corners of this country exists a particularly rare breed of Argentine that is best seen in its natural setting. The Gaucho, which once roamed freely in South America, particularly in the Pampas region, has recently become increasingly endangered. While extinction is unlikely due to the Gaucho’s popularity in the national culture, very few wild specimens remain. Captive Gaucho, while having a longer lifespan and more vibrant plumage than their untamed counterparts, lack a certain dignity and independence that can only be witnessed in a natural setting. A three-hour bus ride took us to one of the few remaining enclaves of feral Guacho, and while the danger was palpable at times, it was truly a breathtaking experience.

Upon arriving, we initially had difficulty differentiating between the Common Argentine and the endangered Gaucho. The most accurate way to determine if the Argentine you’re witnessing is an authentic Guacho is to determine its relationship with horses. The Common Argentine will have an affinity for horses, and may go as far as to mount one on occasion, but largely, the two species live separately. Gaucho, on the other hand, have a symbiotic relationship with the equine species, which manifests itself in near-constant attachment. The Gaucho will only willingly separate itself from its companion in order to perform a revenge ritual against a cohabitating species, the lesser cow. This unique relationship is significantly more parasitic than the one between Gaucho and horses, and any cow captured by a Gaucho can expect to be tortured, often fatally. The horse species is obstinately neutral in this age-old feud, but has been utilized at times by Gaucho to facilitate their heifer domination.

Those readers with weak constitutions make want to consider skipping to the next paragraph, as the Gaucho torture ritual is decidedly graphic. First, the Gaucho permit outsiders to ride their prized horses. This insures that the horse will defecate all over the field where the cattle will be brought, increasing the likelihood of ruining the cows’ freshly manicured hooves. Games are then played in this field of horse compost, often involving feats of strength, skill, and domination, in order to mentally prepare the younger Gaucho for the savagery that will ensue. Finally, cattle are brought into the corral, dogs whipping them from horseback and Gaucho nipping at their hooves. I assure you, the majestic imagery of the previous sentence was accurately transcribed. In the end, select cattle are tied, tackled, and tattooed with the initials of the alpha Gaucho while their compatriots moo in terror. The lucky ones will be barbecued later, slowly roasted outside for hours. Scrumptiously served in a variety of courses with wine, bread, and heavily salted vegetables, the conquered cows taste of defeat and a unique blend of herbs and spices. I assure you, had we known that we were facilitating this barbarous act, we would have politely refused seconds.

Naturalists have recently noted a peculiar trend among certain Gaucho colonies, wherein black bovines are exclusively targeted for the torture ritual. Discrimination, previously considered to be a unique trait of American ranchers, now seems to manifest itself in other cowboy species as well: the Gaucho has shown a previously unknown level of racial prejudice. In his now-famous dissertation on the subject of black cattle captivity by the Gaucho, entitled Changes, famed Gauchologist Tupac Skakur maintained that, “It ain't a secret, don't conceal the fact...the penitentiary's packed, and it's filled with blacks.” While the actions of the Gaucho may seem cruel to us, we must remember that nature plays by a different set of rules. In the end, it is survival of the fittest that determines who flourishes and who gets turned into asado on the weekends. If nothing else, the noble Gaucho can teach us that coexisting is often dangerous, and may require a firm hand. Because seriously, if someone doesn’t control these damn horses and cows, they will shit just everywhere.

Notes:

1.     We visited a farm where people who still follow many of the gaucho traditions live. They are incredibly friendly and accommodating people, and deserve better than being relegated to animal status in a mockumentary.

2.     Their horses heavily influence gaucho culture. Kids as young as 4 were riding horses.

3.     There was a dangerously adorable 3-year-old child at the farm who danced for us. He was even dressed like a little gaucho.

4.     All the parts of the cow are cooked for asados, including kidneys, hearts, intestines, and other intestines. Some of them are tasty. Most of them are terrifying. These adjectives are not mutually exclusive.

5.     While I’m growing to like them, I still maintain that horses are among the dumbest creatures alive. This comic becomes more relevant by the week: 

       http://hatefarm.com/comic/dont-punch-that-horse/

I Can't Hide This Feeling Anymore

Alright folks, I have to make a confession. Two, actually. The first is that this post is going to be borderline disgusting, so if natural bodily functions make you queasy, then you’re shit out of luck. That's a pun; it will be funnier in a minute. The second is that, against all odds, I have become a Communist. I fought these awful anti-Capitalistic sentiments all throughout Europe, but have finally succumbed in Argentina. Forgive me America, forgive me Uncle Sam, forgive me Stephen Colbert, I have sinned. I cannot deny it any longer: I have had lavatorial relations with that woman, Miss Bidet. Before you good patriots back home begin burning me in effigy, as you most certainly should, please let me explain myself. This tragic metamorphosis was not founded in curiosity or experimentation, but out of sheer necessity. This does not excuse my love of Bidet, but I feel as though I should explain how this newfound relationship developed, so that others may avoid falling into the same Marxist trap.

It all started, as many relationships do, with bad mint leaves. I was at a bar and had ordered a mojito because I love turning neutral bartenders into my enemies. Rising to the challenge, I suspect my bartender carefully and thoroughly washed those mint leaves in a recently used toilet, whose previous occupant may have also ordered a mojito from him. I’m not necessarily indicting my bartender with serial food poisoning because that would be a baseless accusation, but it would legitimately surprise me if he understood the words “potable” or “unflushed.” Spellcheck has politely informed me that “unflushed” is in fact not a word, so perhaps it’s understandable that my bartender would be unfamiliar with this word. Nevertheless, after being served a heaping portion from Mojito Man, I’m not in the mood to take shit from anyone. Especially spellcheck. So I’m going to continue unabashedly using fake words and making poop puns.

For the record, my mojito was delicious, and I may have eaten the majority of the mint leaves. The rest of the night passed without event. It would be the last peaceful night I would have for 5 days.

I woke the following morning to find something miraculous happening inside of me. It was so miraculous, that I’m going to use pregnancy as the metaphor to protect your innocent psyches. And boy, was I pregnant. I gave birth over 8 times that day, and if you’ve never had the pleasure of pumping out children at such an alarming rate, I assure you, it takes a toll on your body. Your old friend toilet paper, who’s always been there for you through thick and thin, becomes a cruel mistress. Fearing that the birthing wasn’t going to slow and knowing that my relationship with TP was in the shitter (nailed it), I looked around frantically. And who should catch my eye but that creepy kid Bidet, who I always saw around Europe, just sitting there awkwardly next to my buddy Toilet. Bidet never said anything, and she looked funny, so I always ignored her. In desperation, I started a conversation with her.

“So hey, I know we’ve never formerly met, but I’m Ryan. And, uh, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to…you know…get to know you better?”

Ever the introvert, Bidet didn’t respond. I took that as begrudging consent. I had a rudimentary understanding of how Bidet operated, but I can’t deny that I wasn’t a little scared. Nevertheless, I was desperate, and she was my only friend during that dark day.

Our first time was a little awkward, as first times tend to be. But soon, a strong friendship developed, and Bidet supported me through my trials with food poisoning. She was always waiting for me when I woke up in the morning or got home from school. I didn’t have to rely on TP’s rough disposition and shitty attitude as much anymore (zing). Even today, when I’m giving birth at a much healthier rate, and Bidet has technically become superfluous, we remain close. I don’t care that she’s a dirty French Communist or that she’s a persona non grata in the United States. If our love is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

I’m glad to have finally gotten that off my chest. I’ve been scared to tell my family and friends about Bidet because she’s not well liked back home. I just hope that everyone respects our relationship while it lasts. It’s not common for me to change my opinion on someone as dramatically as I did with Bidet, and I’m excited to see what other changes she will make in my life. With her help, I’m positive that I can weather any shitstorm that Argentina throws my way.

http://twitpic.com/a2vee7

Notes:

1.     “Poop puns” rolls off the tongue quite nicely.

2.     It’s not officially considered study abroad until I get food poisoning. I was hoping I could stave it off a little longer, but alas, shit happens.

3.     My official diagnosis was viral gastroenteritis. It resulted one day of missed class, two visits to the doctor, a diet of chicken and rice for three days, and innumerable bathroom visits.

4.     I have since fully recovered. There are few feelings sweeter than having complete control over your body again.

5.     I apologize for the graphic nature of this post. I simply wanted to document every aspect of my life here, including the crappy ones.

Clash of the Continents pt. 1: South American Edition

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For those of you who weren’t with me for my European adventures two years ago, I do a series of articles entitled “Clash of the Continents” where I compare the country I’m visiting to good ol’ ‘Murica. In the past, the PIPs (Portman Isn’t Preggers) system was used, but in lieu of Natalie’s infuriatingly successful transition into motherhood and marriage, that system will be eschewed in favor of the MADs (Martin Avoids Death) system. The MADs system will function in a similarly hypothetically fashion, where 1 MADs indicates that the item in question causes me to believe that George R.R. Martin, author of famed series A Song of Ice and Fire, will suffer a maddeningly ill-timed coronary embolism in the next week, leaving the series unfinished. 10 MADs indicates my belief that George R.R. Martin is simply an obese highlander, and will have no trouble finishing the series alive, and with the utter destruction of the Lannister household. As always, these opinions are based on limited personal experiences, so if you feel as though I’m misrepresenting an aspect of one culture or the other, keep it to yourself because you’re wrong.

THINGS THE UNITED STATES GOT RIGHT:

Meals – Now before everyone gets their pantelones in a pile, I want to stress that this isn’t a complaint about the food itself. Food here is delicious, heavily based in meat and bread products, and will result in me suffering a coronary embolism like George R.R. Martin. The meal hours and customs, however, are difficult to adapt to and seemed to be based on some sort of hybrid metric-time system that baffles me. Breakfast happens when you wake up and consists of nothing. If you’re starving, a piece of bread and coffee/tea is acceptable, but any more than that is considered gluttonous. Lunch seems to have evolved in a similar manner to lunch in the US, occurring in the early afternoon. Then Dinner decided to hit the snooze button a couple hundred times, because it doesn’t arrive until 11:00 PM. Tea time gets called in to work around 5:00 or 6:00 to cover for Dinner, but it lacks the necessary training and really is nothing more than a unqualified scab in this labor force metaphor I accidentally made up. Therefore, I’m awarding 4 MADs to the US meal system for not forcing me to stay awake to eat dinner, which I think is illegal under the Geneva Convention.

Money – Those of you who read my past articles will remember my general disdain for the Monopoly rip-off that passed as European currency. Argentine currency lacks the simple austerity that I admire about US dolla, dolla bills, ya’ll, but is not nearly as flamboyant as the Euro. Nevertheless, due in large part to inflation here, new money isn’t printed as commonly as in the states, and coins are a rarity. In many cases, when I’m buying my manzanas (apples) and bananas (bananas), I won’t receive full change because the supermarket simply doesn’t have the coins. On top of that, US currency is treasured here because of its stability internationally, so a sort of gray market exists where people are willing to pay more than the international exchange rate in pesos for dollars. US dollars get 6 MADs because a thin dollar rain in the states could cause a dangerous peso flood on the Argentine gray market.

Screens – This one really befuddles me, in part because harsher substitutes are already in place here. But there are no screens on any of the windows. On one hand, this makes sense, because no it doesn’t. There are thick metal shudders to prevent intruders, and glass windows to keep out the cold, but both permit mosquitoes easy access to my succulent ankles. There’s no air conditioning, so a hypothetical screen wouldn’t let out cold air, and would prevent my blood from being all over the wall where I kill mosquitoes that are too bloated on O+ to get away. I’m not sure if screens are necessarily perfect since mosquitoes can sometimes get through them, but since I keep my window shuddered at night anyway to prevent attacks from larger flying insects, colloquially called “Home Invaders,” I don’t see how a screen is any more confining. 8 MADs to screened windows in the US for understanding that the number 1 killer worldwide can be prevented by a few ounces of mesh.

Technology Prices – Poor Argentines. Due to an import tax on foreign technology, things like cell phones, laptops, tablets, and gum are marked up significantly here. In fact, the first month of my time here is being funded by me smuggling in a Nexus 10 tablet from the states and having my tutor pay me for it in pesos. What cost me $400 at home would cost $1000 here (in dollars, not pesos), so being an international Han Solo is a win-win situation for everyone except the Argentine government. Those of you who will travel here in the future would do well to remember to bring the three C’s: Cell Phones (to sell), Chicle (gum, to give as a gift), and Reciprocity Tax ($160, charged to US citizens traveling to Argentina because we charge that much to Argentines for US Visas). 9 MADs to US technology for being cheap, well designed, and created in China.

THINGS ARGENTINA GOT RIGHT:

Nightlife – I’ve discussed this already, so I won’t dwell on it for too long, but the nightlife in the US is more closely related to a daycare than it is to the nightlife here. In Clemson, for example, everyone’s bedtime is at 2:00 AM and there’s always that one kid who ate a little too much paste vomiting in the corner.  Woe unto you if you even consider returning home at 2:00 AM here. The “Abuelo” (grandpa) nickname has been bestowed upon me here because I can’t make it past 5:00 AM, which is when some of my friends back home are waking up to be functioning members of society. Still, it’s incredibly fun to be out that late, especially since no one has had to go home from a paste overdose yet. 6 MADs to the Argentine nightlife for making all of my friends back home hate me.

Sweets – Having long held the banner for Excellence in Obesity and Diabetes Embiggening, the United States surprisingly pales in terms of the quality and quantity of sweets it produces. Sure we’ve got the classic M&M’s, the pompous 100 Grand, and the I-Thought-You-Said-Something-Else-Entirely Snickers, but Argentina has those items (or their cheaper, Latino cousins) plus an entire aisle full of other sugary delights, bonbons, cookies, and sweetmeats, which Thesaurus.com has told me is a suitable substitute for “candy,” but really just makes me uncomfortable. In this author’s humble opinion, the words “sweet” and “meat” should never be united, much like the words “toe” and “jam,” or “Spanish” and “essay.” What I’m trying to say is that Argentines appear to only believe in three food groups (bread, meat, and sweetmeat) while still being able to maintain their svelte figures. Oh, and the sweets are better here. 7 MADs to Argentine sweets for totally derailing that paragraph into a lexical nightmare.

Street Dogs – A little known fact about Cordoba is that there are 17.33 street dogs for every person living in the city. Another fun fact is that the Argentine street dogs follow a contraception program that is exactly the opposite of the one employed by Jurassic Park scientists, and is equally ineffective. Somehow, with an entirely male population (I have yet to see a female street dog), the number of street dogs appears to be holding steady at a ludicrously high rate. I’m pretty sure they even outnumber pigeons, which should be biologically impossible according to the food chain. However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Argentina, it’s that the animals lower on the totem pole have a murderously high level of disdain for the aforementioned food chain. For evidence, I will cite the mosquitoes, which, after entirely devouring me in three days time, will claim the right to fight the street dogs for the Apex Predator Championship. At least the street dogs are better behaved and tend to not bite my feet at night much. 8 MADs to the street dogs here for tending to not bite my feet at night much. 

Lomitos – What do a fried egg, sliced beef, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, banana peppers, and 2 or 3 gallons of mayonnaise have in common? If you screamed “FOREPLAY!” entirely too loudly from the back of the room, then congratulations, you have been entered into the National Sex Offender Registry. There will be no appeals process. If you’ve been patiently waiting for the answer while Hester the Molester is escorted from the room, the correct response is “Lomito.” Which in hindsight does not accurately answer the question. Basically a lomito is a sub sandwich with the aforementioned ingredients that has no business being as delicious as it is. I suppose it could be used in foreplay, but that would really be a waste of a delicious sandwich, and I don’t really want to consider the logistics of that process. Suffice it to say that lomitos are delicious, and if I get obese here, that’s going to be the likeliest culprit. 9 MADs to the lomito for being a delicious sandwich that isn’t used in foreplay.