Uonononono?

So, Halloween, of course, was an incredibly major success. As predicted, my costume, was, among other things, the “most intelligent,” “most sophisticated,” “best costume ever seen,” –shall I go on? Polina and I were, duh duh duhhhh…THE ECONOMIC CRISIS–Miss Dow Jones, and Miss Nasdaq, to be precise. We actually had Alan Greenspan fly down and approve of our outfits before revealing them to the public. See photos below. The rest of the night? Insane. As could be expected of a bunch of Americans celebrating a holiday that technically doesn’t exist where they’re living. (It’s catching on, but still in the beginning stages). Let’s begin this tale with dinner.

I am telling you the 100% truth here when I say: I ate ghosts for dinner. No, but really. Our entire kitchen staff dressed up in Halloween attire while they made us mashed potatoes in the shape of ghosts (eyes & mouths!), big graves made out of hamburgers, and tombstones made out of puff pastry that actually read R.I.P. Of course, if one were to ask for ketchup during this dinner they would receive a simple reply, “No tenemos ketchúp, pero tenemos…sangre.” (wink, wink). Good thing the hot vampire from True Blood already bit me like 17 times and really got me hooked on blood, so I’m already accustomed to drinking it with every meal. And, to top everything off, we had a lovely Argentine version of dirt cups…and then…a costume contest. It was all very reminiscent of 4th grade (except that an Argentine boy dressed up as a “prostituta” won second place, after the sexy cop). I wish every day were like that. Mom, you’re going back to culinary school to learn how to make perfect ghost mouths in my mashed potatoes. I’m not coming home until you do.

Next, I had to put the finishing touches on my fully functioning, body-sized, stock market arrow. I still have glitter in my ears. Long story.

Then off to some ridiculously-named club. Uonono? Unou? Ununo? Who knows? Who cares? All I know is that I’m really glad the exchange rate is what it is because they really overcharge for vodka y Tang. Other notable costumes at Uononouonono….V-Card, Alfajor, the Four Seasons, a Green Card, the Peso Moneda, Hungry Hungry Hippos, an Indian Giver…overall, a very creative bunch. Well done.

The night was all relatively calm until this point, when, all of a sudden…Jack Bauer walked in and told us that we were all about to be bombed in a terrorist operation. Not exactly what I expected on my Halloween night…but you do what you gotta do. Basically, he saved all our lives, didn’t want any press for it, and then gave each of us a puppy to keep. Really a very nice man.

Bienbebidos.

Spring Break. The trek began on a warm, sunny Monday morning. As we loaded our belongings on to the Mendoza-bound bus, we anticipated a relatively relaxing, comfortable 17 hour bus ride with enjoyable movies, yummy alfajors, and scrumptious out-of-the-box mashed potatoes, cafeteria-like steak, and A-Class boxed wine. To our dismay, however, we were met with quite the opposite. Who knew glaciers grew inside Tramat omnibuses? I sure didn’t.

After the sun went down, after we didn’t drink the coffee we didn’t get, after I didn’t eat the dinner I did not receive, my body started to freeze from the inside out. My lips were purple, my stomach shriveled up into the size of a flea.  I had to use my neighbor’s lukewarm breath as a blanket. Things were going poorly, to say the least. I could go on about the travesty, but to be honest, this one, minor, singularly awful entire day-long bus ride (the entire earth actually rotated around the sun while we were on bus 76 headed Northwest) is of miniscule importance compared to the staggering beauty I came across over the course of the next few days.

Bikes and wines opened a door to my heart that I didn’t even know existed, like the secret revolving door in your great-grandfather’s “library.” Bikes & Wines, situated in Mendoza, Argentina–a wine lover’s heaven–lent me my exploratory vehicle, handed me a map, and said, “Bienbebidos.” And that’s exactly what we did. 11 bodegas/vineyards on the map, 8 hours to make the 12 kilometer round. I know what you’re thinking–That seems impossible, right? But then, so, too, did Michael Jackson’s 9th nosejob.

With a positive, adventurous attitude, we traversed the trails and witnessed one of the most glorious places on earth. The ripe green rows of grapevines blurred against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains as I whirred by on my yellow bicycle (not much “whirring by” was taking place, we were really going quite slow…it was more like absynthe embibing, to be frank). I saw God emerge from between two Ande peaks, He nodded, smiled, and blew me a kiss. From then on, I knew I would sell all my belongings, buy a small shack on the Mendoza highway that has no traffic, and take up tarot card reading as my profession.

Our next adventure, after leaving the utmost relaxing city in the universe, was to Santiago, Chile, the birthplace of greatness, freshly squeezed orange juice, cool grafitti, and DirectTV. Just to throw this out there, this bus ride was only 7 hours long and we received coffee, sodas, 2 ham & cheese sandwiches, AND an alfajor. AND 2 movies: Jurassic Park: Lost World, and that movie with Jodie Foster where she “loses her child” on an airplane.

I’m not going to lie, Santiago began with a bit of a scare. I had to save a dear friend of mine from an incredibly potent box of feminine pain reliever. There is no FDA here, and pretty much anything goes. Owing to the skills I have adopted as a result of my love of medical shows like Grey’s Anatomy and House MD, I was able to navigate the situation pretty seamlessly, with the only problem being the guy in front of me who’s butt crack was hanging out. That was really gross. Nothing sangria (for me, not the sick one), a little budín, some empanadas, and Gilmore Girls (in English) couldn’t solve. The rest of Santiago is really a blur, though, because this is the place where I bought my new baby unicorn, Mr. Sparkles, and I just became so enamored with him that I couldn’t focus on being an expert explorer. Although, there were some things I did take away from Chile: a new baby unicorn (duh), a really cool T Shirt, a llama keychain, images of the coolest grafitti ever seen, an STD (gotcha! making sure you’re paying attention…), the life goal to move to Santiago, Chile and own a cool resto-bar in Barrio Bella Vista, the life goal to climb that big mountain in Santiago, Chile, the life goal to be a professional orange juice squeezer, and, finally, a pocketfull of really tiny illegal Chilean immigrants.

Needless to say, Spring Break was pretty damn awesome.

DISCLAIMER

Mood: dumbfounded

My mommy honestly thinks that, at best, my brain functions at a remedial level.

Despite the fact that “Ode to Bariloche” is in no way supposed to be a legitimate poem–having written the “poem” in negative 5 minutes, eating budín de limon at Aroma, laughing hysterically inside my head when I came up with the dingle/dangle line–there seems to have been a misunderstanding. I recently received a rude awakening when my MOTHER wrote me an e-mail telling me how proud she was of my creative poem. She said it was so lovely. I’m now completely rethinking the validity of anything my mother has ever told me. Did a giant, magical unicorn REALLY drop me off into your lap as a young babe? Did Jesus REALLY invent organic 9-Grain bread because he knew the secret mystical properties of the nine grains in question which make you able to read minds? Were you ACTUALLY “not that drunk” on your last birthday (the one where you tried to beat up that Asian girl)?  Hats off to you, Mom. You’ve fooled me.

Ode to Bariloche

This post is dedicated to all those who have had God let you take a peek at Heaven, and then he said, “Nevermind, just kidding, back to Earth for you. Hey, don’t you get angry with me, I’ll make sure your premature wrinkles set on faster than you can say Desperate Housewives.”

Mood: Longing, for that sweet supple snow and the gentle caress of a llama sweater

This past Thursday a nice-sized group of adventure lovers (Sharon, Kyra, Lisa, Polina, Julia C., Mike, Zach, Matt R., and I) set out on the dusty trails for a Bear Grylls-style weekend in the uncharted (falso, it’s actually pretty charted, I still have all the colorful maps) Patagonian mountains. After a grueling (nice, comfy) 19 hour bus ride where everyone almost nearly died from hunger and starvation (plumply satisfied after eating 2 meals, a few snacks, and some nice boxed vino), and became so socially awkward from lack of human interaction on the desolate trek (actually, so in tune with pop culture after watching all of Madonna’s music videos up till 1995, a WWE production called “The Marine,” and playing “The Movie Star Game” and Sporcle on my Blackberry), we arrived in a little abandoned village called Barioloche (the most gorgeous out-doorsy populated tourist spot on the planet). The thrills began immediately upon our descent from the second story of the bus, but instead of detailing my every step in narrative fashion, I’ve decided to write a little poem in the spirit of Bariloche’s mirthful beauty:

Oh, Bariloche, atop your divine mountain I thought I knew the secret to life.
One single look at your tantalizing flora and fauna could eliminate world strife.
The best lomo I’ve e’er had,
Veronica from the spa gave me a massage that was pretty rad.
Oh, Bariloche, you make my heart tingle.
From the side of the mountain Mike and Sharon did dingle (dangle).
Since I’ve left you, my thoughts are tangled,
My body lies here bruised and mangled.
On the slopes I wore a large purple fluffy suit, and you didn’t make fun of me.
Your abundance of stray dogs kept me company.
Your snow padded my falls, it forsaw the future,
For that, I did not need even a single suture.
I ate food that resembled an American brunch.
The 23rd century-esq WiFi exerted quite the punch.
When I woke up my last morning I noticed upon the bunkbed rafters,
Names and places written by a bunch of crafters.
So I, too, penciled in my name,
and hoped that your elegant beauty would forever remain the same.

Brazos y besos.

LIGERS, PHOENIXES, AND COYPUS, OH MY!!

So, the long-anticipated post has arrived.
Mood: On cloud 10, because it’s way more exclusive/kewl/clean/phat/expensive/puresex/that’swhat’sup/thecat’smeow than Cloud 9. duh.

Sunday the 14th was Polina’s birthday, so of course she had called together a meeting of the minds in the Four Seasons (where else) in Buenos Aires on Wednesday night to collaborate and plan the world’s best birthday weekend in just only 24 hours (and longer time amount would just be too easy). Of course, though, she had her own vision–and that was Saturday night’s White Liger Pyramid. But before I embark on the task of making a literary legend out of that singularly spectacular spectacle, I must detail the sequence of events leading up to the bonanza.

Thursday night began Thursday afternoon at 4, when, before I settled cozily into my tranquil bed for my afternoon siesta, I heard an abrupt rap rap a tap on my door, number 404. A little agitated, I arose to answer the beckoning call. Upon opening the door, any previous agitation fled and was replaced with utter joy. Polina popped into the door frame, Andy Samberg style, with large plastic bags filled with glass bottles, and a chicken Caesar salad sans the “Caesar dressing” (more like mustardy-liquid). We grabbed glasses, popped the corks to 2 bottles of Brut, summoned Mike, of I-chew-your-hair-and-make-you-uncomfortable-fame, and took the noble dive into what would be the single-most UNbelievable weekend of our lives (until my Birthday…December 31st, ahem, ahem.)

By 7 pm, we decided what would be best for us was a pub crawl around Buenos Aires (check out pictures at http://www.bapubcrawl.com). The pub crawl began at 10, about 4 hours earlier than any normal BA outing, so we had to get ready (party-attire) fast. Getting ready…well…after a more than adequate amount of champagne, was a challenge, to say the least- comparable to a potato sack race whilst one of your legs is tied to your childhood front yard tree and the other to your semi retarded black sheep cousin. I’ll equate the shower process to Nastia Luiken trying her hardest not to throw some bows when the Chinese girl stole her gold medal. One of those one’s where you just have to sit down because all the water flying at your head is too much to handle. Nevertheless, after an hour or two, I went to fetch the lady of the hour, Polina. To my dismay, she answered the door looking like the Joker. I told her to wipe off her make-up and start anew, but unfortunately, the second try wasn’t much better than the first. But I thought, hey…it’s her party, she can cry later when she sees the photos if she wants to. So we (Polina, Mike, Sharon, Matt, Julia, and I) left to meet up with the exceptionally good looking crew that hosted our soon-to-be-infamous pub crawl…The itinerary was set: we would go to 3 bars around Plaza Serrano, a free shot at each location, followed by drink specials, even a tango lesson?, and then on to Club Arroaz/Lost for the wrap up of the night. The details following our arrival to the first bar are relatively inconsequential, considering Polina only made it to the first 15 minutes of the third bar before I had to take her home. These are the only important things you need know: when we received the speech from the crawl leader with the usual, “don’t be that guy, puking on the sidewalk,” Polina energetically raised her hand shouting “Me! Me! Me!,” when I was sitting next to the birthday sweetheart, she accidentally poured an entire vodka drink into my lap. When I said, “Polina, you just poured an entire vodka drink into my lap,” She responded by smiling widely and pouring another drink directly all over my face. She “claims” she doesn’t remember- (“SOOOORRRRRYYYYYYY I REALLY DON’T.”-Polina)

Friday morning I awoke to immeasurable pain. My body hurt in places that don’t even exist. Somehow, some way, though, I was able to gather my senses, my thoughts, and my walking skills, much like a struggling newborn, and go to brunch and the zoo with Mike (Polina has still yet to get a cell phone, so she went before we did, and never found us). I had vegetales del Wok (stir-fry, an interesting and mentally unfounded choice), and Mike had the most beautiful steak and eggs I’ve ever seen. The zoo had almost all the animals I wanted to see (no Pandas) and all the animals I surely didn’t want to see, namely coypus/nutrias, incredibly large glorified sewer rats free roaming around the zoo grounds so you could feed them. Other animals of interest: vacunas–I need one, NOW. Albino wallabees–perhaps the most unfortunate-looking animal alive. White tigers–got me pumped for Saturday night’s festivities. Kangaroos–I don’t think I had ever actually seen one in real life. Hyenas–truly terrifying, but I kept imagining hearing them speak like Whoopi Goldberg-a la The Lion King. Anyways, after an incredibly long day at the zoo (how did that happen?), I went home to sleep/regret last night’s decisions/wonder how in the world I would be able to go out a second night. Well, I did. And we *tranced*all*night*long. The evening began with late drinks at Bar Bizarro Mundo–a kind-of-cool-in-a-way/slightly creepy place with a 1950’s American burlesque theme, red mood lighting and all, and was then followed by a major dance party at Club Niceto. The DJ was probably 47 from a recently bombed village in the outskirts of Beirut or Jerusalem, with gray hair, but he played the MAYJA’ jamz. Approximately 46% of the NYU kids were there, and we collectively danced off 17 pounds by the end of the night. The highlight of the night was witnessing a revolving disco-glass studded camel above the entrance. I may or may not have stolen it. Well, I didn’t, but I definitely wanted to. I’m getting an inside man to finish the job. Not really, but I’ve got elaborate plans to do so.

Saturday was museum day. We went to Museo de Bellas Artes (B-e-SH-as), an incredible place with some of the most fascinating pieces (if skittle vomit on a canvas or the epitome of what you would see if you DID do mushrooms is your cup of tea.) We played “if you had an infinite amount of money, which paintings would you buy and what room would you put them in.” So…hypothetically, I have a very well-decorated mansion, beach house, ski chalet, and woodsy lodge/ranch with rooms such as: the mud room, the beach towel room, grandmother’s bedroom, dark lair, room for crafty objects, psychadelic music listening room, and so forth. I’m also worth several billion dollars- Bill Gates bought my used painting plasmas that change in each room cuz I wanted the newer updates and he was scaling back his budget. Now will you date me, George Clooney?…A delightful day at the museum quickly turned into a large family-style Italian dinner-a la Olive Garden. Just kidding, we didn’t go to Olive Garden, but I bet there’s one here. Dinner was at El Trapiche, a restaurant recommended to me by my brothers’ friend. It was my second time going, and it only got better. I had a mixed salad and raviolis and the Latitud 33 Chardonnay. And. The tiramisu. And. Champagne. We celebrated two birthdays, Polina’s and Natalia’s. Both now 21 years of age. We got lots of cute pictures, but I was wearing a trapese top with skinny jeans, and since we’re sitting down in the majority of the pictures, it just looks like I’m pregnant. I guess I can’t look better than everyone else all the time….And, as could be expected, our lengthy dinner soon turned into a lengthy line waiting to enter the Liger Spectacular. As mentioned before, Saturday was the big night, the climax of the birthday weekend blowout. Polina had her creative team choreograph a show so incredible, so awesome, so marvelous that even Martha Stewart, Britney Spears, Zach Effron, Oprah, and the Beatles had to be turned away because there weren’t enough seats–sold out in 1.7 seconds. Really. I have the internet receipts to prove it- if i have these how have we still not been able to conceive a paper trail for the electronic election machines? Below are the details of how the show unfolded….

I’ll begin with the liger pyramid. And this liger pyramid was just not any liger pyramid. These ligers (half lion, half tiger, powerful lasers in the middle of their head) stacked, one on top of the other, to form a three-dimensional pyramid, 85 feet high, and in the center of the pyramid was…Polina. At their cue, the pyramid opened at it’s top to a central pillar of ligers on their hind feet, lifting Polina into the air. Then all the ligers sang happy birthday to the birthday girl in 14 different languages. Yes. 14 different languages. (She had them linguistically trained by Lupe’s–one of two women who run the maxikiosco on the corner of Ecuador and Viamonte, where I buy my Bueno Bars–friend, Pablo, from Peru- cuz he needed a job and Polina was kind enough to take him onto the creative team, world renowned for their work with Madonna on her Confessions on a Dance Floor tour and Britney’s I’m A Slave tour) Of course, this was all amidst a huge laser light show featuring the joint efforts of the Ligers’ lasers and huge oversized Phoenixes flying across the glamorously decorated stage–continuously rising from the ashes and awing the audience of over 1.7 million people (at the arena we had built in just 17 hours). Once the flame spewing jefe phoenix rose to his intended destination of the highest perch above the crowd, approximately the size of Luxembourg, he ceased his volatile morning-after like breath of fuego, opened his cavernous mouth, unrolled a purple velvet tongue, and made way for Kanye West to non-chalantly sache, both fearlessly and finesse-fully down the stair way of mucus which was actually a mixture between congealed diamonds and Cristal…and casually began a song set comprised of Flashing Lights-Addiction-New Workout Plan (quite the throwback)- Harder Better Faster Stronger- Love Lockdown (world premiere performance- The Good Life- Jesus Walks- and a cover of Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing. Everyone was in awe slash the ligers froze in a downward dog position before climbing one another’s backs to form a furry escalator for Kanye to descend to the floor on. Then Kanye kissed Polina on the cheek and said “HAPPY BIR-DAY GURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLLLLLLL- remembaaaa what dey say, Everything they told me not to is EXACLLLLLLLLYYYYYYYY what I would.” Gold flakes rained down on everyone and then house trained magic vicunas put 17 million dollars in everyone’s pockets as they filed out.

So, Sunday rolls around, and what is it to behold? Why only the best fucking brunch ever created in the cutest fucking restaurant in Buenos Aires. I’m talking, I probably spent at least 4 hours here, just ogling. Olsen, a Scandinavian-themed restaurant is so quaint that I thought little bunnies in pink sweaters were going to serve me my food. I had the plato del día, a smörgåsbord, literally. A sopa de cebolla (butternut squash soup), a little green salad, the most delectable seasoned potatoes- Paula Dean eat your heart out- and some kind of meat topped with cranberries that actually melted in my mouth. The wait staff was good looking. There were flowers cascading down the heated walls. There was a tiny little wooden bridge. The bathroom was a jungle. Really. It was decorated in jungle fashion. I recommend this restaurant to any and everyone. Mainly because there really are little bunnies in pink sweaters, but they don’t serve the food, they’re the bathroom attendants and they give you little lollipops on your way out. Maybe that’s just the girls’ bathroom, but surely they wouldn’t be sexist bunnies–Scandanavians wouldn’t do that.

Saludos, mundo. Ten divertido.

Liger Pyramid

Hustle ‘n Flow

So, the overall lesson I learned this week is: It’s hard out here for a pimp.

This lesson spans across life in general and is applicable to almost any situation. And here, in BA, pimp life has become pretttty brutal. Below are just some of the instances in which the life of a pimp has been made noticeably more difficult.

1) The Club. It’s official. I didn’t think China and Argentina had much in common, but now I see–Argentines must kill their female babies at birth. The male to female ratio at any given boliche on any given night is at least 10:1. Pretty bad odds for an aspiring pimp. Um, so why do I go to NYU again? I guess the next lesson I’ve learned this week, one that is directly correlative to knowing how hard a pimp’s life is here, is that you can’t turn a hoe into a housewife. Kidding. Not really. Yes I am kidding. No I’m really not, but you know what I mean. (http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/clips/judy-grimes-just-kidding/239665/)

2) ALFA 2000. Pimp-Life, in general, for both males and females has been greatly impeded at Residencia ALFA 2000 because of the presence of Ronaldo, the night doorman who thinks all Americans are terrorists/nazis/communists/piles of throw up/amoebas/living cancer. This man has vowed to single-handedly bring down any and all action that looks like fun. Or even things that don’t even look like fun but could possibly, maybe, probably not, but may have the slightest chance of being enjoyable. My friends want to bring glass bottles of Tang to their rooms. But Ronaldo says…sorry, no clanking. You’re clanking the glass, and that’s rude. I’m leaving my room to go out with my friends for the night, and I cough. Sorry, no coughing. Coughing isn’t silence, and you need to be silent. In the dark. Sit in the dark and be silent. What’s your room number? Be silent. Tell me your name and your room number! No, be silent, what are you doing?? Ronaldo–it’s on. You obviously haven’t watched Bon Qui Qui yet. Americans willll cuuutttt youuu.

3) The Shantytown. Ok first off, there really are shantytowns here. And they’re pretty much a block away from the million dollar apartments. So they look even more shanty-ish. Not only do people live in these shantytowns (which I wanted to get a picture of, but didn’t want to get cuuuttt), but these people also are obsessed with Paco. And Paco is a big bitch. Paco, all the rage for the underprivileged and underage (they start using around age 7 or 8), costing a wopping 1 peso (35 cents USD), is made from remnants of the leaves used to make cocaine, bits of glass, and other miscellaneous items. Paco is worse than crack, and causes brain damage in less than 6 months. Needless to say, I think I’ll stick to good ol’ time-tested vodka y naranja. Check out this clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJqaILd0iQA

***People and Places around BA:

Wednesday night (Lindsay’s birthday!!) at Museo. Cab driver tried to tell Mike and me every single one of our bills was fake, and offered to drive us to the bank. What a thoughtful swindler. Nice try. Another Thursday Night at Lost. Best DJ ever? Yes. At least 5 fights broke out. It was awesome. I may or may not have been the last person to leave. It also may or may not have been light outside? Aroma has the best damn ham sandwich ever. I didn’t anticipate a cold spell, so now I can’t go outside. Argentina plays in the qualifiers for the world cup today.

Taxi to Museo

Feliz Cumpleaños, Lindsay

Museo

Ronaldo, rude. I will cut you.

Fight 1, I got a beer poured on me.

Lost

Ven aca.

Come visit me.

http://www.yapta.com

http://www.luluguesthouse.com/

Voy a Cor-tar-te

By now, I hope everyone has seen the Mad TV skit, Bon Qui Qui. As it turns out, all the phrasing really translates quite well into the Argentine culture. Bon Qui Qui dictated the events of this weekend, my first weekend in Buenos Aires.

Saturday, Polina and I walked about 4,000 miles, all over the city, in order to find this one restaurant, El Trapiche. We finally found it, and spent about 3 hours there drinking a bottle of wine (I even noted the name, Mom: its Latitud 33, Chardonnay) and sharing life stories. Later, we were to realize that there was a subway stop about 5 blocks from our house that went straight to the restaurant. But, I say mistakes provide experience, and experience provides knowledge. After lunch we went to Boca, a super cool and crafy place which is pretty much safe only during the day. Boca houses one of BA’s fútbol clubs, Boca Junior, which is considered The People’s team. I bought postcards and saw a llama as well as a man dressed up as some miscellaneous red bug-like creature. Pictured below.

Saturday night was an adventure. Sharon, Natalia, Julia, Polina, Satch, Neil, Mike, and I went to one of the hottest boliches (clubs) in the city–appropriately named, “The Big One.” At this point in time I learned that local porteños do not believe in colors (other than gray and black) or beer jackets. I was the only person–clearly American–wearing red, who happened to think a jacket was a non-essential after a few mixed drinks. The entrance to The Big One had two doors, with two lines, both with a two-hour wait. We were pretty sure that if we acted as American as possible we could skip the lines. Turns out, we were right. Thanks to Polina’s savvy gringo-like skills and Gustav’s affinity for “tips,” the 8 of us were able to enter under the velvet rope right away for 100 pesos, $33 USD. Inside The Big One, I quickly learned the latest dance moves. Maybe I’ll vlog them at a later point. Think 80-year-old man with rusty joints trying to do the robot.

Mike left without telling anybody; Bon Qui Qui cut him pretty hard. Sharon and Polina almost bust a cap in one crazy bitch’s head for cutting the bathroom line. The guidos all insisted on wearing their sunglasses in the extremely dark club. The smell of marijuana was prevalent. There was one chino who could smoke a cigarette with such incredible style that I spent most of my night doing trying to do everything he did, with an “air cigarette.” The night ended with Burger King, which was simultaneously incredible and utterly disgusting. I threw it up on the way home.

Sunday morning found my body in utter pain, but I was eventually able to peel myself out of my crunchy dorm bed and go to the Sunday San Telmo market…which was…fucking awesome. I want everything there. They have something for everybody, gorgeous heirloom jewelry for me, and even antique syringes for the classy drug addict.

Just a little commentary regarding some mental notes I’ve been taking over the last week: BA needs a law forbidding the existence of dog poop. Seriously, the sidewalks are like obstacle courses. The man on the corner of Ecuador y Viamonte can make the best damn empanadas in the city, and his beer is colder than anything I’ve ever tasted. There always seems to be at least one fully-costumed person on any given day wandering the streets of BA. The locals put mayonnaise on everything. They also cut off the crust of all their sandwiches, which are on fluffy whiter-than-white Wonder Bread. Girls wear little backpacks to the clubs (WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN THERE?!) The local Asians adopt Spanish names like Carlos and Emilio (the equivalent of your local Frankie, Minnie, and Phil). I think my cleaning lady is on Paco.

Llama in Boca

Llama and Costumed Bug-Man

The Big One

Party Pic

Part Pic 2

I wonder if the locals here worship Simple Jack like the aboriginal drug dealers of East Asia?

The Chino doing his thing..

🙂

I wear my sunglasses at night…

At least they know what they like…

Daily Costumes

As previously mentioned, this is the Obelisk–not the pyramid.

Julia & Me

Polina y yo

Un caminito in San Telmo. We were really hungry at this point.

Condiments

Lost/El Arraoz y La Estancia

Combine every single one of your favorite hip-hop/rap songs from the last 15 years with the characters from Step Up 2 & Stomp the Yard and you’ve got Thursday night at one of BA’s hottest hot spots–so hot that it even has two names. At Lost/El Arraoz you can drink vodka y naranjas sin vodka for 15 pesos (5 USD) and still have the time of your life (after you switch to Tequila Sunrises). In contrast to NYU’s NYC campus, the ratio of women to (straight) men at Lost/El Arraoz was 95:1, and they were so polite that they even asked your name before grinding with you.

After a long night at el club, all the kids packed up and went to La Estancia for the day. A three hour bus ride led us into the ‘burbs of Buenos Aires, where we had homemade wine, sausage, steak, veggies, etc, watched local dances, marveled at local art, and mounted some pretty sweet horses. A (hot) gaucho even gifted me a ring. We’re basically married now.

People Updates: Polina sweats Bon Qui Qui. John is “Most Likely to Get Slobbered On.” Sharon’s endearing nickname is “La Negra,” which not only means black person (she’s not a black person), but also signifies a goth (We’re still debating about that one). Mike has a Xanga and almost killed 30 kids in a Moon Bounce. Patricio seemed less anxious today, probably because of all the calming nature. Me: The gummies here taste different, and my cholesterol level has probably already doubled. My teachers are making me take Advanced Conversation, so I’ll probably start a Xanga of my own about how I’m staring at a gigantic pile of grape-flavored children’s tylenol (my fave) that just won’t leave my peripheral vision.

On the right is Juanito, who lives in our building. He made sure we didn’t forget our address.

This is the Step Up 2 Clique waiting to perform.

Polina and I had a “Your Inspiration Is…” contest. Mine was “A Fierce Animal.” Hers was…

“Simple Jack”

Em is hot.

Jamz

To be honest, the girl in the blue pants sucked 😦

La Estancia, back yard.

El Bar de la Estancia

Zach, or as the Porteños like to call him, Satch, in his Gaucho-wear with agua con gas.

La Samba. The man who was dancing had unnaturally perfect posture.

Check out this guys knife. BALLLERRR..

Señor

Pretty horse

Cowboy winning me my ring that he proposed to me with.

Los Gauchos, Diego y anonymous

Breakin’

Shmoozing with the Locals

Alfa 2000

Big Metal Flower

Una Búsqueda por una Tarjeta de Claró

In the midst of searching for una tarjeta de Claró, Polina finds the cleanest bathroom in all of Buenos Aires. However, the girl who went before me left BOTH toilet seats up. Qué Raro. PIctured below is said baño.

Perhaps to your surprise, we are at a Burger King, not a Disco. You’re welcome, liver.