10 lesser-known lunfardo

Well, I don’t know if all of these words are technically lunfardo, Argentina’s special version of street slang, but here are some of the more recent (and useful) argentinismos I’ve heard:

1. Capaz: a synonym for tal vez or quizas. Maybe.
2. Pibe, piba: kid, guy, girl.
3. Fiaca: laziness, like when you want to just lie around and not do anything, as in, “tengo fiaca” or “que fiaca!”
4. Posta: really, truly. If you’re asking if something happened for real, you say “posta??” and you can answer in the same way.
5. Macana: sucky, shitty, as in something bad happens and you say, “que macana.”
6. Garca: a person who will screw you over, cheat you (get it? it’s cagar (to shit) with the letters switched).
7. Cheto/a: a high-society person, who dresses well, goes to the best places, and looks down on everyone else.
8. Careta: someone who wants and tries to be cheto, but isn’t. Careta means mask, so it’s someone who’s a social climber and forgets their roots.
9. Garchar: yep, to fuck.
10. Enganchar: to get hooked, or become obsessed/involved with, as in “me enganche rapido con ese pibe, y a poco tiempo nos pusimos de novios” (I got involved with that guy quickly, and soon we became serious).
11. (BONUS!) Embole. something boring, a drag, as in, ¨that party was such an embole.”

Unromantic but happy

I absolutely love this hilarious list of the 5 Least Romantic Keys to a Happy Relationship…luckily, for the last nine months, long distance has imposed some of these on us. One more reason why, despite how much it sucks, overall it’s really been ok.

Some argenyanqui “cultural differences”

I’ve been staying with my boyfriend’s family for about two weeks now. Even though we have a cozy studio apartment lent to us by some friends of his parents, there’s no internet, no TV, and no mama’s cooking. So we’ve been spending a lot of time at his house anyway, and this intense exposure just highlights some of the sillier cultural differences between us. (And if most of them have to do with food, it’s because we both love to eat, obvi.)

1. Things that make them think I’m going to get sick and/or die:

• Walking around the house barefoot
• Not blowdrying my hair, sometimes even daring to go outside with it wet
• Not liking to sleep with the blankets tucked under the mattress (always “desarmando la cama”)
• Sending my underwear to the lavadero to be washed

2. Things that make them want to vomit:

• Eating eggs in the morning
• Eating pasta with salad (???????)
• Mixing sweet and salty things (example: eating a pastry right before lunch)
• River Plate descending to the second league of national soccer

3. Things that make ME want to vomit:

• Desserts that include weird layers like canned peaches, soggy cake, whipped cream, dulce de leche, etc.
• Touching raw meat and not washing hands
• Soggy miga sandwiches
• Matambre
• Blood sausage, entrails, livers, brains
• Stale galletitas

4. Things we mutually like:

• Barbeque sauce
• Cheddar cheese
• Homemade empanadas
• Milanesas with lemon from the lemon tree
• Doughnuts and facturas
• Mate cocido with milk

BA through different eyes

This is just a random comment on Buenos Aires life…I’ve spent a lot of time here, off and on, in a lot of different neighborhoods. Somehow I just realized that I’ve been moving gradually farther and farther from the center..and life on the borders of the city really is different.

I started off in Balvanera, where everyone warned me about how dangerous it was, full of squatters and casas tomadas, and I would be terrified to walk half a block at night from the bus stop to my apartment, which despite the multiple locked entrances and portero had been broken into just a few months before I got there.

Next I moved to a student residence, mainly for foreigners and Argentines who come to BA to study, right next to the national congress, Congreso. During the day, protestor’s drums would throb and noise bombs would explode out my window, while at night the street became eerily deserted, with newspapers and leftover political pamphlets rolling around everywhere.

After that I lived in a nice apartment in Almagro, very close to the border with Boedo and Caballito. I loved the neighborhood here – it was far more residential than the first two, with quiet, tree-lined streets and the clear presence of families and young children, but an easy commute by subte or collectivo to the center.

Then I stayed in Nuñez for a month, where I loved taking long walks to explore the streets full of gorgeous houses and gardens — real houses rather than apartment buildings — and the neighborly feeling of everyone sort of knowing each other.

And now, for just a few weeks, I’m staying in Villa Devoto (featured on my favorite Argentine TV show, Ciega a citas! I keep looking for the house), where there are even bigger, more beautiful houses and quieter streets. It’s so different from the more central neighborhoods for a lot of reasons. It’s not just that people don’t rush around frenetically, cars and motorcycles don’t try to kill you, and that people are there to live rather than to work. It’s a lot cleaner, there’s less dog crap everywhere, and you don’t feel like if you don’t cling to the zipper of your purse, you’re going to be robbed. There are fewer piropos (really!), and the lovely green plaza is a place for old people and students to hang out rather than sketchy bums. In the cafes, people sit calmly using laptops — a HUGE sign that this is a safe neighborhood, because well-meaning people will jump all over you if you attempt this in the center. But the reason I like it here most is that people aren’t obsessed with me being a foreigner, and don’t treat me differently as such. It used to seriously upset me — in a way that I’d have to do something nice for myself, to calm down after — when people would constantly ask me where I was from, what I was doing here, assume I didn’t speak any Spanish, or try to take advantage of me for being a foreigner. And here in Devoto, despite throwing my accent around all over the place, not one person has even asked me where I’m from. I love that, because it implies a certain acceptance, of my right to be here, of my legitimacy as a person regardless of where I’m from. And it gives me a lot more confidence to go up and talk to people if I know they’re not going to disregard me because of my nationality.

This morning I met the woman living next door to me, and she cracked me up; she was so sweet and funny and welcoming. I had knocked on her door to see if she could give me her internet password, but she actually didn’t know it — when she kicked out her last ex-boyfriend, he changed the password and left. A year later, she’s still trying to figure it out, and told me she can’t believe that bastard is still affecting her life. But anyway, this woman represents how different things are in a true barrio, where some of the distrust fades and companionship emerges. It’s isolated, and too far away from everything, and not that interesting once you’ve seen the pretty houses. So I would never want to live here for good. But for now, I like it. 🙂

Dragging it out

From what I can tell, Argentines are repeat offenders. They draw out relationships that just aren’t working in an insane way. I think Americans tend to have the mentality that it’s black and white, all or nothing, that when you break up it’s for good and there are a lot more fish in the sea. Most Argentines don’t seem so sure. They like stability, and they like what they’re used to, the same way they’re not so sure about Indian food or sushi. My boyfriend’s best friend has been seeing a girl on and off for about four years..they stopped clicking and started fighting a couple years ago, and periodically break up, don’t find anyone else, miss each other, and give it another go. The same with his godson, who at the tender age of 21 has been with a girl for five years, and says that the first two years were fantastic but then he sort of lost interest. And yet, they’re still together. It’s not working, you could be SO much happier, so why do you keep doing this to yourself? I know of a couple who recently broke up (we’ll see if it lasts!) after eight years together. They’re both 22. Isn’t that ridiculously young to be together for such a long time?? But regardless, I wanted to applaud them for breaking up. Go out and see the world! Have some fun, play around! It’s really incredible, whereas in the U.S. guys that young would be serious, serious commitment-phobes, it’s almost the reverse here. Not that I’m in love with awkward, phobic, emotionally-stunted American guys either, but I think it’s sad  when you see a couple that doesn’t pay attention to each other, doesn’t smile or laugh or touch one another. The other day I was invited to go see my boyfriend play soccer and one of the other guy’s girlfriends came along too, so we sat in the stands together drinking mate. When her guy came off the field for a break, he didn’t come over to say hi, to chat, nothing, he just stood off to the side with the other guys. As far as I can tell, they didn’t even make eye contact, and later, when everyone was walking back to the cars, it was the same, the girl talking to other people and the guy ignoring her. When I mentioned it to my boyfriend, he said, “yeah, well, they’ve been together for four years, after four years it’s like that.” Upon which I informed him that if after four years it was like that with us, then we would break up. I know that relationships change after a long time together — obviously couples who have been married for a zillion years don’t have the same heat as a young couple in their honeymoon period — but still, I think (I hope) that that electric excitement gets replaced with a quiet intimacy and friendship and companionship, and I don’t really plan on being in a relationship where someone ignores me, no matter how long we’ve been together. Despite their occasional behavior to the contrary, there’s a saying here that an Argentine girl said to me just last night, while ranting about the dramatic antics of the guy she was involved with: “mejor sola que mal acompañada” (roughly, better to be alone than in bad company). It’s so true.

Argentina vs. Chile

Recently I found a bunch of great blogs, written by American women in relationships with or married to Chileans. And honestly, it was surprising, because there’s a TON of them, most with a similar story of studying abroad there, falling in love with a Chilean, and moving back after graduating from college. One girl said that she knows at least SIX people from her study abroad program now getting married in Chile. Whaaat??!

So what’s going on, Argentina?? Why such a huge difference? There are very, very few blogs of Americans in Argentina in (successful) relationships with Argentines — believe me, I’ve searched. Most of them, in fact, focus on other things or complain pretty bitterly about the men. This is despite the fact that there are way more expats in Argentina than in Chile, and probably equal numbers of college students who study abroad in both countries each year.

Are the men just different?? Don’t they come from the same cultural roots in both countries? Is Argentina just too much of a mess, too intense and indecipherable? I actually don’t know that much about Chile; I was only there once for a brief trip to Pucon, in the south, with a big group of Argentines, so I don’t really know anything about chilenos. But what all these women’s blogs seem to say is that on the whole, they’re a pretty good group of guys — kind, faithful, chivalrous, and hard-working. Whereas what the expat blogs from Argentina say about argentinos is that they’re gorgeous liars who will break your heart and mess with your mind. Probably neither extreme is true. But I really am curious about this huge difference in experiences with the men. Chile is much more stable economically (and much more conservative) than Argentina. Does this extend to stability and sanity in relationships?

Another thing that I’ve noticed, though, is that this bitterness seems to permeate  life in Argentina in general. Expats are bitter, Argentines are bitter, everyone is relatively tired and bitter. I was always surprised to be characterized in Argentina as very young, innocent, and naive — because in the U.S., my friends would describe me as very independent and mature. I consider myself a strong person. But I’m not bitter yet, I’m not fed up with life the way I saw so many (even young!) people in Argentina feel. Not everyone, but many. You get on the subway and people’s faces are like death. Honestly, after a day of running around, tripping on broken tiles, getting harassed with piropos, and confronting at least five unexpected obstacles, I felt like death too. This might just be a metropolis thing. Anyway, I wonder if it’s different in Chile. And I wonder what it would take to change that bitterness, what change would look like.

The carnicero

This afternoon I called the boy and he was in the carniceria picking up meat for an asado tonight. It reminded me of a funny incident that happened about a year ago, when I was living in BA, sharing an apartment with two Argentine women. The boy rang the bell one evening, thinking I was alone in the house, and when one of my roommates answered and asked who it was, he thought it was me and said it was the “carnicero.” My roommate cracked up, the boy walked in looking red and mortified, and I was totally confused about what was going on. So basically, it’s a sexual innuendo — the “meatman” brings the “meat” for his girlfriend….I hope I don’t need to go into detail about what the “meat” is.

I guess every culture has their words for joking around about this stuff — but it got me thinking about the connection between Argentine men’s sexuality and the national obsession with meat.  The quality and preparation of meat is deeply connected to Argentine national identity, both in how they view themselves and how they’re seen from abroad (the single most frequent thing people would tell me before I went to Argentina was “Oh, I hear they have great steak there”). The ritual of the asado is also a very masculine affair — I’ve witnessed my boyfriend’s father subtly teaching him to be a good asador, and whenever we would invite friends over the guys would congregate with their beers out by the parrilla, despite the raging heat and flying ashes, and the girls would be left to do their own thing. Then, as they cooked, the asador would emerge and pass around small pieces of chorizo or whatever, maybe with some bread, and then go back and forth constantly even after everyone sits down to check on the pieces still grilling and bring new cuts when they’re ready. The point is that doing it right isn’t easy, and so each time he brings a tasty new morsel, the asador is praised and thanked.

Just think for a moment if you could make a metaphor of the Argentine lover and the asador. He comes in with high expectations, of himself and to please the woman. Not necessarily arrogance (this cliche might have some truth, but it’s too simplistic), but a general sense that compared to the rest of the world, he’s pretty great. But he does the thing (let’s say he “prepares the meat”) the way he’s been taught — by other men, and caters entirely to masculine taste. Like an excited child, he presents himself passionately and expects appreciation and congratulation. He might be frequently absent in some ways, but make up for it with what he brings in others. But while he’s been honing his technique with the guys out back, the girls are sort of left to one side — perhaps not truly considered in the conversation.

This is, of course, not a commentary on any one person, but seems like a general experience that many women have shared with guys in Argentina. I love Argentine meat (oh god..haha) but I also love a good salad, a yummy casserole, maybe some chicken once in a while. I love for someone to sit down and truly think about what I would love, and not about what he can prepare best.

One last thing. I was trying to think of an American equivalent to the “carnicero” ringing the bell of our apartment. What would it be, the milkman? That running joke about who your true father is? What on earth does that say about Americans?!  If meat is intense and straightforward, then perhaps milk is a little bland and quickly goes sour…

Hollaback!

I LOVE THIS. Check out the Buenos Aires version: http://buenosaires.ihollaback.org/

Street harassment of women  is not ok, I really don’t buy that the aggressive version of is part of anyone’s culture. This is so often underestimated and undervalued, women are supposed to just put their heads down and accept. In a recent improv dance exercise I did with a group of university girls, we had to come up with movements expressing the story someone shared of being commented upon and harassed in the street. I was amazed that the majority of them expressed some form of covering their faces, withdrawing into themselves, hiding, showing sadness and shame. Where is the anger? Where is the fighting back? Now with this global Hollaback! movement, women around the world are sharing their stories and locations, debunking the myth that this only happens in “some” places to “some” women. It actually happens a lot more than anyone realizes, and it’s time for us to stop taking it. Which, by the way, can happen without becoming the man-hating, femininity-denouncing, crazy person that so many people think equals “feminist.” I am a feminist because I love being a woman, I love what that means to me, and I believe that I and all other women have the right to respect and dignity, in the public and private sphere — in our relationships, our friendships, our places of work and education, and in the most dangerous place of all: the street.

Bestiaria

I just found this amazing blog (in Spanish) by Carolina Aguirre, http://bestiaria.blogspot.com/, which inventories stereotypes of women and shares their stories. It’s won tons of awards, and is by the same author of the Ciega a Citas blog, which was turned into a highly successful TV show that I am also currently obsessed with and you can watch here: http://www.novebox.com/Series/ciega-a-citas/114534

So I hope these help you procrastinate as much as they do me…..Enjoy!!!!

Neither here nor there

In honor of a boy who’s flying back to Buenos Aires today, and in honor of the crazy facebook contest sponsored by LAN in which I won two roundtrip, business class ticket from the U.S. to Argentina (!!!), I want to share some thoughts I jotted down in the margins of the boarding pass of my last flight from BA (literally!) and have been holding onto for too long now.

It begins at the gate. The in-between state of international flights is a funny thing. For a brief amount of time, you find yourself between worlds, which means that in a way you can choose to “be” from whichever you want. Whenever I fly to and from Argentina, I secretly hope I’ll be mistaken for an argentina, and do my best to impersonate that boho-meets-rockstar look, long hair effortlessly windswept and I’m-too-cool-to-care-or-even-look-at-you attitude. Everyone, all the passengers, participate in this game of who’s from where. There are little markers that give it away. Some are more obvious, like the family that argues loudly in their porteño dialect or the old men who guffaw that “this is sure third-world security, har har” (hate them). Clothes, hair, language, and face can be hints — but many times I’ve thought I guessed only to  be surprised and proven wrong. But it’s not so much about the nationality of all the passengers, as the appearance of belonging. The best for me is when the flight attendant asks me what drink I’d like in Spanish. I guess it’s less that I want to be Argentine and more that I just don’t want to fit into anyone’s categories. On the plane, thousands of miles above borders and checkpoints, you’re in-between the two places that make half the passengers into foreigners at one end of the trip and the other half strangers at the other. Identity becomes slightly more fluid. It’s a no-man’s land of transition, where you can pretend if you wish to be whatever you like. It’s an exciting challenge, heading into a foreign country full of untold adventures. But it can also be a welcome relief, after months of feeling like a defensive outsider on the streets of BA, to suddenly feel like you’re in your element again, exactly where you’re supposed to be, an insider once again. As the flight goes on longer and the tiny plane icon inches closer to your destination on the map on the screen, people get tired and a sort of airplane camaraderie develops, rendering those initial “who’s who” distinctions irrelevant for a a little while. You’re all stuck together in this unreal space. But when you land, borders and nationalities matter again, and it’s impossible to forget who belongs and who doesn’t — the lines at customs are just the first link in an infinite chain of foreignness and nativeness and privilege. I think I’m rambling here. I just think those transitions are interesting, because they show how totally constructed and imagined (rather than material and essential) the differences between us all are.

And on an unrelated note, a friend shared this with me today and I thought it was pretty true about the difficulties of long-distance relationships.  http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/20/fashion/20Modernlove.html?ref=fashion