Rosaries in San Telmo

I am not catholic, but I have always had a fascination with the traditional ways of the largest and arguably most powerful church in the world. South America is a Catholic continent, and Argentina is no exception. With the recent selection of archbishop Jorge María Bergoglio as el Papá in Rome, catholic trinkets and souvenirs can be seen everywhere, especially in the touristy areas of Florida street and the Sunday San Telmo market. Pictures of the Pope with the argentine color of light blue behind him are screen-printed onto shirts, flags with his face fly above the newpaper stands, and in the old-money neighborhood of Recoleta, many houses fly the Vatican flag side-by-side the Argentine flag. 
As we meandered through the San Telmo antiques market on Sunday, a certain trinket caught my eye again and again: the shining, sparkly rosaries hanging form the sides of almost every booth. These gorgeous necklace-like strands of prayer-beads have always been a true fascination for me. I was brought up in a church as similar to Catholic as possible without actually being Catholic; we had communion every week, baptisms for babies, stain-glass windows, and even similar service language. Even though I am not Catholic, I have always used the Catholic rosary to pray; every country I have visited outside the US I have bought a rosary. And here in San Telmo, I had found the perfect place to buy a rosary from Argentina. They were all gorgeous and unique; some had colored beads with metal crucifixes, some had links of metal in between clear glass beads with painted crucifixes hanging down.  And I wanted all of them. I finally decided on one: a chain link strand with a metal crucifix and blue beads, gradually getting smaller towards the top. 

Sources:
1. http://buenosaires.for91days.com/2011/03/17/san-telmos-sunday-antiques-market/
2. http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g312741-d314020-Reviews-San_Telmo_Antique_Market- Buenos_Aires_Capital_Federal_District.html
3. http://www.economist.com/blogs/americasview/2013/03/catholicism-argentina

Rush Hour

The gentleman next to me leaned in and asked, “¿Es Malabia, no, la estación?” “Si señor, la proxima es Malabia,” I answered before closing my eyes again. It was five thirty in the afternoon, and the collective sway of the subte red-line crowd was rocking me to sleep. To my left, a kid in an Argentina jersey with a backpack on and headphones in; to my right, a little old lady with bags of lettuce and onions; in front of me, a mom with her daughter of maybe three dressed more fashionably than me; and behind me, it seemed, the rest of the city. Four weeks in, and I still could not get used to the sheer number of people in Buenos Aires. Rush hour on the subte was always an interesting experience: hundreds and hundreds of people crammed into thin trains on tracks zooming underneath the main avenues of the biggest city in Argentina.  
Where I live, there isn’t much public transportation. Actually, in all honesty, there is no public transportation. No buses, no trains, no subways; we don’t even have taxis. Buenos Aires, on the other hand, runs on public transportation. The subways, buses, and taxis are cheap and constantly busy. When it rains and the streets become rivers, the subte shuts down and all of a sudden the 50,000 taxis driving around turn off their “libre” lights with the sudden onslaught of porteños trying to get to and from work, the supermarket, or school. However, when the sun is shining and the subte is open, it is a beautiful thing. There are six main lines in Buenos Aires, each with its own letter and color. Four of the lines run straight from the Plaza de Mayo area out of the Microcenter; there are two lines that cross perpendicular to the other lines. It is 2,50 pesos a ride, either loaded onto the sube cards purchased at the post office (that can also be used for the buses and trains to the suburbs) or given to you on disposable tickets bought at the subte stations. The trains themselves are works of art: graffiti covers most of the outside of the majority of the trains, sometimes even covering the windows so you cannot figure out what stop you need to get off on. Swirls of blue and green cover a painting of skull that is next to a drawing of a mother and child upside down, which points to a yellow sun partially smeared by someone’s name in a heart. Each train is unique and interesting, sometimes beautiful and sometimes a little creepy. 
I opened my eyes as the doors slid open at my stop. People streamed by me, pushing through the masses trying to get on the train. I just wanted to stay where I was, keep riding the train until I couldn’t anymore. There was a type of peace, a calm, that came with being pushed between so many other people that were simultaneously swaying to the rhythm of the train. However, it was my time to depart; there would always be tomorrow to rejoin the crowd of people, all with different stories but in the same place at that one time. 


Sources:
1. http://www.subte.com.ar/contenido/home.asp
2. http://www.metrovias.com.ar/v2/html/mapa_subte_ampliado.htm

Lighthouse in Colonia del Sacramento

I live in a small town, so the slow pace of Colonia was right up my alley. It seemed our group doubled the population of the colonial city because the cloudy Sunday afternoon was keeping people inside. I did not even see the lighthouse at first it was so short. But as we walked through the center of town, we saw the tip of the tallest building in Colonia, probably still only three floors tall: the lighthouse. We meandered over to the entrance, where we were informed it was twenty uruguayan pesos to climb to the top. After paying the tiny sum, we started our trek to the top. The stairs were spiraled and narrow, and every time we passed another group everyone had to stop and shuffle by, holding on tightly to the flimsy wire railings on the side. 
I love heights; I love the feeling of looking over the side of a tall building or the side of a cliff and getting dizzy seeing endless space below me. When we got to the top, the first thing I did was look down, breathing in the crisp air of the wind coming in off the Río de la Plata. The top of the lighthouse allowed us to walk all the way around in a circle, seeing every angle possible. To one side was the city of Colonia, petite but strong, holding its place against the rocky shore. The other side was the wide Río, looking more like an ocean than a river. They had told us Argentina was on the other side of the river, but it was hard to believe since I could not actually see it. I feel like I walked endless circles around the lighthouse, trying to capture my moment of  invincibility that only comes from being high above the ground. I wanted to know that I had seen everything that I possibly could, that I had taken in every part of Colonia del Sacramento. 


Sources:
1. http://www.southamerica.cl/Uruguay/Colonia_Lighthouse.htm
2.  http://coloniaturismo.com/index.php/view/information/faro

Addiction

I could feel the creeping tendrils of the mania many associate with soccer slowly seep into my mind, taking up space usually reserved for more important thoughts. I had tried so hard for the last ten months to cut soccer out of my life. I don’t like soccer, I never have. I played for almost fourteen years and I don’t think I enjoyed one minute of it. When I got to college, I decided to purge myself of the game that had taken so much from me over the years. However, with my the trip to South America, it was not really possible to stay soccer-free.

I want to clear something up: I do not like soccer, but I am still obsessed with it. Soccer is a dangerous addiction; it will slink into your life and steal your heart and mind so that even if you don’t like it, you will watch and play until you can no longer stand up straight (and even then, you might still keep going). Almost every memory from my childhood up through high school has some link to soccer. Those moments in life that never change in your memories, all of mine were on a soccer field. Every minute of the day not in some school-related activity was soccer. My dreams started to take on a note of desperation that only those with addictive tendencies know: where the tint of the dream is actually the tint of the addiction and every subconscious thought while waking becomes crystal-clear thought when sleeping. All this craziness, the obsession and addiction, is the reason behind my decision to leave soccer. 

The group trip to the Nacional game in Montevideo was my first taste of soccer in a long time. As I sat through the game, I felt that familiar bond to the game take root in me again. As hard as I tried, the addiction would never be cured. So I gave in, and took whatever pleasure I could from a poorly played game. When we got back to the hotel, I watched a game, and then another one. The next day, I went and played soccer. We went two days later as well. I searched the newspaper for articles  about scores for international games and European leagues. And once again, I found myself wishing that soccer could be the only thing in the world. Those thoughts that used to be so a part of me had that I thought I had lain to rest were back again, and as strong as ever.

There is literally nothing on earth like the game of soccer, and Buenos Aires knows it. The craze that I feel is probably half of what a normal fan feels when his team plays. The clubs themselves are huge economic and political powerhouses; they control the city, it seems. They have power over who gets tickets, what players come and go, and the flow of money. Even though the clubs are something to behold, the fans are the real spectacle. Every game they come prepared to cheer for a solid two hours straight; their drums, yelling, and colors fill the stadium. The away fans sit behind barbed wire for protection and are forced to leave twenty minutes before the home fans to give them a safe head start. Children in full kits chant along the dirty words of team cheers and emulate the much older fans by flicking off the opposing team’s fans. Women are sparse in the regular fan sections, and non-existent in the super-fan sections, called barrabravas. Going to a soccer game in Buenos Aires is a crazy experience, but I felt among friends; I felt finally among people who understood my addiction and obsession.

Sources:
1. http://www.bsas4u.com/football_bsas.php
2. http://wander-argentina.com/argentina-football-which-games-to-go-to/
3. http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2011/aug/21/argentina-football-gangs-barra-bravas
4. http://www.gringoinbuenosaires.com/barras-bravas-argentine-soccer/

The Grocery Store

Change can be kinda hard sometimes. I like the United States; I'm a pretty big fan of fast internet, Starbucks, the english language, and hot showers. I am comfortable there. But nothing great ever happens inside your own comfort zone. Actually, everything truly satisfying that I have ever accomplished has been far outside where I feel comfortable. And let me tell you, South America is far, far outside where I feel comfortable.

Grocery stores are my comfort zone. Some of my earliest memories were in grocery stores; I used to go with my mom, sit in the buggy, and watch the rows go by in a blur. I can remember running down the freezer aisles as fast as I could, trying to escape that cold that seeps through your clothes when someone opens the glass door while reaching for some frozen item. I can remember watching my mom weigh enough apples for the week, then bell peppers, then bananas and then maybe an onion or a cucumber. During the summer, we would get watermelon and the huge box of icee pops that really taste like nothing but are perfect for those hot, humid days in July. The grocery store is comfortable for me: row after row of possibilities, all so familiar and so the same. 

Here, the grocery store is not familiar to me. The grocery store, as we have it at home, is non-existent. There are grocery stores, but they are not the same; the aisles are full of paper towels, giant water bottles, and bags of milk. It is not what know. Most of the produce is sold off the street from cartons stacked one on the other. Bananas sit next to oranges and apples, red and green grapes spill over the sides of wooden crates, and lettuce takes up the space of the neighboring onions and cabbage. Prices are hand-written, and they change sometimes according to the owner’s preference or the season or the next store’s price. Normal streets become the grocery store, sometimes stalls with produce, sometimes stores called “kioscos” with cold drinks and alfajores, and sometimes bakeries selling empanadas and croissants. For me, the grocery store is a place; here, the grocery store is an experience, an all-day event that ends with bags from five different stores that contain everything from apples to paper towels to cans of “Coca Light.” It is, surely, not what I am used to. But that doesn't mean it isn't good, or maybe even better. 

Getting Started

When I arrived in Montevideo, I didn't know what I was doing. The airport was small, but even so, in Spanish, so naturally a little confusing. After the shortest customs experience ever, I was thrown into a country that I knew very little about. After obtaining a couple taxis for the group, I was on my way to the main city. The hotel was in the neighborhood of Pocitos, next to Río de la Plata and La Rambla, a very nice stretch of pathway along the beach of the river. Quickly I got accustomed to the slow pace of Montevideo; it was the layout of a huge city with the population of a town and the pace of the countryside. Nothing happened quickly, ever. And it was wonderful. The old city was centered around the cathedral, a gorgeous church too full of show to generate any true worship but at the same time too beautiful to doubt its divine inspiration. We listened to lectures at the public university two days, one on celebrations in Uruguay and the other a basic review of the history of the country.
We spent a week in the capital of Uruguay before taking the short bus ride to Colonia del Sacramento, the first city founded in Uruguay. If we thought Montevideo was slow, it was nothing compared to the pace of the colonial city we now inhabited. After walking the entirety of the town, we climbed the tallest structure we could find: the lighthouse. From the top, we could see across the Río de la Plata towards Argentina and across the flat expanse of Uruguay towards Montevideo.
The next morning we took the fast ferry to the biggest city in South America: Buenos Aires. This is the place we had been talking about for the whole year, waiting to arrive in the hustle and bustle of the Paris of South America. It seems to be a maze of straight avenues with no end and too many people to be real, a confusing conundrum of frozen images that blur from the rush of the day. Tell me life isn't some kind of beautiful here.