Happy Fourth of July, World!
This has been a hell of a day.
First, all the idiots in my Spanish class skipped today to celebrate America, therefore my Spanish class was way better than usual. (It's amazing how missing 5 hours of botched pronunciation can improve your mood).
Then after Spanish class, I had my weekly meeting with Paula, my Spanish tutor/cultural adviser, who assured me that, yes, ISA students do make friends with Argentines, though it takes some fuerza and voluntud (force and will). This is contrary to the opinion of my host mother, who has observed that exchange students primarily make friends with other exchange students.
Paula assured me that pursuing things like Capoeira classes and jam sessions are the things that will net me friends.
Paula also explained to me that its the norm for female people to avoid eye contact with the menfolk while walking on the streets. That had really been digging into my self-confidence. Walking down the streets, I was beginning to feel like I was invisible, ugly or a rapist. Or an exciting combination.
Speaking of Capoeira, today was my first friday class and therefore the end of my first full week of doing capoeira. Holy god! That thing is amazing. From 6 to 10 today, I sang in Portuguese, spoke in portu-spanish, attempted some death defying maneuvers, played the old (circa 1700-1800) style Capoeira game and did pretty well, apparently.
And then afterward, glory of glories, I got to hang out a little bit with some people from my class and they walked home with me. Speaking in Spanish, por fin! They were even female! I somehow, between my infinite good looks and precocious technical display of Capoeira skill, managed to overcome years of cultural conditioning, and speak with an Argentine female. I didn't even have to start the conversation. Whoa.
And then after that, dinner, some sort of vegetable pie situation. Not bad. And following that, a brief conversation with Nair about how Paula advised me to go to bars to meet people and my ignorance/antipathy concerning alcohol. She then consulted Jose, my host brother about where I ought to go, and he invited me to go see his band play at a bar. Then after that, he will take me along with his friends to a boliche, which is Argentine for dance club. In typical Buenos Aires fashion, Jose's band doesn't start playing until 1 AM. In short. I will need sunglasses.
Some of you, gentle readers, may notice that these activities don't rank high on my list of things I like to do. For those of you who aren't savvy let me point out all the parts of this itinerary that I could potentially dislike: Rock 'n Roll, Bars, Dance Clubs, Not Sleeping. That pretty much covers it. But never let it be said that I don't try anything new. It'll be an experience of some kind.
And then after that, I went to find this jam session that I heard about the weekend previous in another jazz club. Being me, I lost the napkin where the address was written right before I left, and so only knew it was on either 1630 or 1680, Pedraza Manuela.
Well, 1680 didn't exist and 1630 was a door surrounded by colorful graffiti and marked only be a sign that read We Gift Kittens*. I considered giving up, but I heard a saxophone coming out of the air conditioning unit, so I mustered my courage and rang the doorbell to discover...
Bohemia.
The thought I had as a long-haired girl in oddly fitting clothing asked me for a 10 peso cover charge was "This was the place that Janis Joplin would have gone to hear jazz jam sessions. Indeed, that might just have been here taking my money."
It was an apartment turned venue. Where it was light enough you could see the walls, they were painted orange and red in a style that could affectionately be referred to as DIY. The "bar" was actually the kitchen counter. Some thoughtful soul had nail-gunned some wine glass racks on the ceiling above it. People were lounged on the floor, on beat-up couches, on chairs ripped from cars surrounding low, rough, wooden tables that were covered in candles, wine glasses and splinters.
The "stage," inches away, was illuminated by colored lighting put up by the same contractor that made the tables and put up the glass racks. It appeared to be a collection of those carpeted boxes that my band teacher stood on to conduct in high school. The wall behind the drummer was covered by a mysterious and lumpy red rectangle, which I surmised to be mattresses pressed into noise-reduction duty. Behind the stage was a large white sheet with a women's face painted on it. What does it all mean?
The music attempted to live up to the authentic bohemian decor and maybe it succeeded. I have no way of knowing if your average jam session in a rat hole in the early 60's had players as weak of these. I assume so. They tried to be weird and they succeeded.
But it fills me with hope, because it means I can go there and play and not be much worse than anybody else. The people there were all pleasantly drug anyway and didn't seem too focused on the music.
I did meet some people, and spoke to them in Spanish. Hooray! I met a pair of chicas that are, get this, a Foley artist team. Apparently, one records and the other actually makes the sounds. This strikes me as one of the most random professions I've heard of, but a great one. They assured me that it was lots of fun. They work mostly for movie studios looking to do sound on the cheap in Argentina.
So, bohemian place, bohemian couch-mates, bohemian music. Tomorrow more Capoeira and a long night. Wish me luck
*Denotes something that has been literally translated for maximum comedic effect. Discontinue use if rash appears.
This has been a hell of a day.
First, all the idiots in my Spanish class skipped today to celebrate America, therefore my Spanish class was way better than usual. (It's amazing how missing 5 hours of botched pronunciation can improve your mood).
Then after Spanish class, I had my weekly meeting with Paula, my Spanish tutor/cultural adviser, who assured me that, yes, ISA students do make friends with Argentines, though it takes some fuerza and voluntud (force and will). This is contrary to the opinion of my host mother, who has observed that exchange students primarily make friends with other exchange students.
Paula assured me that pursuing things like Capoeira classes and jam sessions are the things that will net me friends.
Paula also explained to me that its the norm for female people to avoid eye contact with the menfolk while walking on the streets. That had really been digging into my self-confidence. Walking down the streets, I was beginning to feel like I was invisible, ugly or a rapist. Or an exciting combination.
Speaking of Capoeira, today was my first friday class and therefore the end of my first full week of doing capoeira. Holy god! That thing is amazing. From 6 to 10 today, I sang in Portuguese, spoke in portu-spanish, attempted some death defying maneuvers, played the old (circa 1700-1800) style Capoeira game and did pretty well, apparently.
And then afterward, glory of glories, I got to hang out a little bit with some people from my class and they walked home with me. Speaking in Spanish, por fin! They were even female! I somehow, between my infinite good looks and precocious technical display of Capoeira skill, managed to overcome years of cultural conditioning, and speak with an Argentine female. I didn't even have to start the conversation. Whoa.
And then after that, dinner, some sort of vegetable pie situation. Not bad. And following that, a brief conversation with Nair about how Paula advised me to go to bars to meet people and my ignorance/antipathy concerning alcohol. She then consulted Jose, my host brother about where I ought to go, and he invited me to go see his band play at a bar. Then after that, he will take me along with his friends to a boliche, which is Argentine for dance club. In typical Buenos Aires fashion, Jose's band doesn't start playing until 1 AM. In short. I will need sunglasses.
Some of you, gentle readers, may notice that these activities don't rank high on my list of things I like to do. For those of you who aren't savvy let me point out all the parts of this itinerary that I could potentially dislike: Rock 'n Roll, Bars, Dance Clubs, Not Sleeping. That pretty much covers it. But never let it be said that I don't try anything new. It'll be an experience of some kind.
And then after that, I went to find this jam session that I heard about the weekend previous in another jazz club. Being me, I lost the napkin where the address was written right before I left, and so only knew it was on either 1630 or 1680, Pedraza Manuela.
Well, 1680 didn't exist and 1630 was a door surrounded by colorful graffiti and marked only be a sign that read We Gift Kittens*. I considered giving up, but I heard a saxophone coming out of the air conditioning unit, so I mustered my courage and rang the doorbell to discover...
Bohemia.
The thought I had as a long-haired girl in oddly fitting clothing asked me for a 10 peso cover charge was "This was the place that Janis Joplin would have gone to hear jazz jam sessions. Indeed, that might just have been here taking my money."
It was an apartment turned venue. Where it was light enough you could see the walls, they were painted orange and red in a style that could affectionately be referred to as DIY. The "bar" was actually the kitchen counter. Some thoughtful soul had nail-gunned some wine glass racks on the ceiling above it. People were lounged on the floor, on beat-up couches, on chairs ripped from cars surrounding low, rough, wooden tables that were covered in candles, wine glasses and splinters.
The "stage," inches away, was illuminated by colored lighting put up by the same contractor that made the tables and put up the glass racks. It appeared to be a collection of those carpeted boxes that my band teacher stood on to conduct in high school. The wall behind the drummer was covered by a mysterious and lumpy red rectangle, which I surmised to be mattresses pressed into noise-reduction duty. Behind the stage was a large white sheet with a women's face painted on it. What does it all mean?
The music attempted to live up to the authentic bohemian decor and maybe it succeeded. I have no way of knowing if your average jam session in a rat hole in the early 60's had players as weak of these. I assume so. They tried to be weird and they succeeded.
But it fills me with hope, because it means I can go there and play and not be much worse than anybody else. The people there were all pleasantly drug anyway and didn't seem too focused on the music.
I did meet some people, and spoke to them in Spanish. Hooray! I met a pair of chicas that are, get this, a Foley artist team. Apparently, one records and the other actually makes the sounds. This strikes me as one of the most random professions I've heard of, but a great one. They assured me that it was lots of fun. They work mostly for movie studios looking to do sound on the cheap in Argentina.
So, bohemian place, bohemian couch-mates, bohemian music. Tomorrow more Capoeira and a long night. Wish me luck
*Denotes something that has been literally translated for maximum comedic effect. Discontinue use if rash appears.
Comments
You can come be Cora for a night.
Good luck.
I didn't realize you didn't know that about Hispanic culture.
the female-male eye contact dealie. If you look a Hispanic male in the eye in the eye in a latin american country he thinks you're a ho.
Note to Cora: don't do that unless you want them to attempt propositioning you.
I can't believe you didn't know that Nathan! OK sorry... sometimes being a missionary to Mexico has come in handy.
Not that I'm a ... missionary... to Mexico... your family probably thinks I'm nuts now.
:p