Why is this happening?/The adventures of Focksie and Momma Accs

"We have been innundated with the idea that there's a way you're 'supposed' to do life. And it turns out that none of it is true."

-Carey Folbrecht

A long time ago, I mentioned a quote that was taped to the mirror of my room in Buenos Aires when I arrived. It said essentially, "Find a good travel companion before finding your route," and I can't think of a better moment to revisit it. I spent the past week on a trip to Mendoza, Argentina's wine country at the foot of the Andes, and Quintero, a small Chilean town outside of Valparaiso. When I drafted this post, I was in Mendoza, the second leg of the trip, with Carey, a close friend from my exchange program:

I had a moment of panic just now when I couldn't decide whether to return to the city a day early. Why that was even a consideration I'll explain later, but I'd like to begin by expressing my gratitude for the words of reassurance I received that confirmed the fortune on my mirror and one of my deeply help beliefs-that it is the people you spend time with that enrich your experiences and your life, so you should pick them wisely and hold onto them dearly-second only to my belief that we all end up alone and that's the only thing in this life that is constant. No one has ever talked me down so effectively from a state of distress: she was mature without being patronizing, she joked to extract me from my confusion, helped me help myself because I joked back. Thanks Momma Accs.

I want to start with the best parts, so here are some of the amazing things we did on our trip. After a long 24 hours of busing to the small Chilean town of Quintero (an acceptably long ride considering that we traversed the entire continent of South America), we arrived at our beach-side hostel, where we spent the next two nights. The evening of our arrival, we shared an immaculately prepared tradional Finnish meal (supervised by a native, executed by an Australian chef) with an ecclectic collection of international travelers. We slept deeply that night and woke up to a beautiful, misty morning, then had a fresh, simple but delicious breakfast that featured homemade apricot jam. That afternoon, we hitched a ride a few kilometers into town (a common and hostel-approved means of transport) and then returned to spend a few blissful hours on the beach. That evening, we went horseback riding with two other American girls studying abroad in Buenos Aires and coincidentally staying at our hostel.

Let me start by saying that we survived the ride and were not injured except for some sore legs. However, although the views were quite stunning, there were many terrifying moments when my horse would take off at a gallop unexpectedly. During slow-moving horse rides, I'm always secretly hoping my horse will pick up speed, but clinging onto my horse for dear life as we pounded over the sand dunes, I found myself longing for those tame rides. I finally noticed that my horse's sprints were provoked by the sudden movements of the other horses when we were on the last stretch of our ride, trotting along the beach at sunset, watching the stars emerge, the crests of the waves illuminated by moonlight and the fresh ocean air whipping our air about... and that night I had a dream that I was rescuing hostages on horseback (I was, at that point, a masterful rider), so overall it was an incredible experience.

Today in Mendoza we went on a full-day wine tour of our hostel's three favorite bodegas. At the second vineyard, we enjoyed a five-course meal, each dish paired with a different wine. It was a lovely day, but by the end, in the heat, with a sunburn from the beach still smarting and well on my way to San Juan, I was having great difficulty finishing the contents of my glass.

So we ended up heading home a day early for a number of reasons, but what pushed me to make the decision was only having one more pair of clean underwear and not enough cash to do laundry. In addition, we were still stuffering from the not negligible discomfort of our sunburns (I've learned my lesson!), which ruled out a number of activities, such as bikeriding and paragliding, which might involve painful friction against sensitive skin.

In many ways it was the typical travel experience: we met a lot of fellow travelers with far more ambitious journies planned than ours and saw a lot of beautiful things. I also experienced the typical travel ailments that seem drastic at the time, but are really just the result of not being careful with your body. I think I had the delusion that traveling grants you immortality, when really you are even more vulnerable to the things you'd typically be careful about. Altitude sickness, sun sickness, bug bites, nosebleeds, naseau, pure exhaustion and anxiety-just little (and sometimes big) annoyances that served to disillusion me of my misconceptions about my own immunities. It was good that I was with a friend who could both take care of me and make fun of my body's debility afterwards, because we always had to keep our spirits up for the next challenge.

Thanksgiving

This post was intended for publication several weeks ago! Please excuse the delay.

Thanksgiving in Buenos Aires was a success! Last Sunday me and my host family had about 14 guests over, including neighbors, friends, and lovers, to celebrate Thanksgiving Argentine-style. Getting everything together was a huge task, but luckily I had a lot of help with the logistical challenges. The biggest task was transporting a 12 kilogram frozen turkey across the city (not to mention actually finding a place that sold full sized turkeys) and finding a place to cook it. The oven in my house was not only too small to fit the enormous bird, but is designed to cook pizzas and empanadas at high, difficult to regulate temperatures. My host family recommended I ask panaderias in our neighborhood if they could cook our turkey and, after several apparent dead ends and frantic e-mails to my spanish professor/neighbor asking to use his oven, a long-established panaderia agreed to cook and season the turkey, and even to save the juices on the side so that we could use them for gravy.

The dinner was definitely a group effort. I was in charge of the turkey and the mashed potatoes, while other guests brought drinks, cornbread, vegetable side dishes and dessert. My host dad helped to carve and serve the turkey, as well as advise me during the mashed potatoe making process. Our guests that showed up early helped transport extra chairs and tables to the terrace from our neighbor's house. We were missing the cranberries (I searched everywhere!) and pies, but the food we did have turned our great and everyone ate until it hurt, so I felt that the American tradition translated quite well.

Jujuy, Rally, Colonia, Asado

Hermanita

It's strange how good news can make you feel sad. Maybe it's because the things that just suck on a normal day seem that much more devastating in juxtaposition. Or because the news confirms that life will go on gloriously without you, even though your heart will be in this place long after you've physically gone.

So here's the good news: Veronica is pregnant again! (Update: Potential baby names include Ema, Antonia, Margarita and Sara) The family told me over dinner on Monday night, and although I'd suspected she might be because of brief comments made during earlier conversations, it's much different when the news is directed at you. And I was a little speechless. But I managed a few "Felicidades" for lack of a translation for "You guys must be so excited!" before I excused myself from the table and collapsed onto the floor of my room and cried.

It seems like I write a lot about crying here. I don't think I cry more than most people, but it happens at such significant moments that I feel like I have to document them. Plus, I barely watch TV here, so it's not like I can expend this crying energy during touching commercials or episodes of Sex and the City. This particular session I think could be aptly compared to the kind of crying you'd do if you were single and reaching an advanced age, and your pretty, well-adjusted friend announced that she was getting married. Of course you'd want to be happy for her, and you tell her of course you'll be her maid of honor, and all the while you're tearing up a little, at first from excitement, but then you realize that excitement is tainted with jealously, and you end up making some excuse to leave immediately before she sees you've become completely panicked.

Well that would be an extreme example.

Also I was listening to Owl City, and I don't even need to explain how crooning pre-teen electronic pop can just cut right through you . Anway, there I am on the floor, my face against the wood, and I could pretty much borrow the passage from Romance Crushed (not my title, btw!) pertaining to animal noises and uncontrollable sobs, except instead of "beautiful, simple thoughts" I was making just one desperate plea over and over: No. It was running through my head, and sometimes slipped out of my mouth in that sad whispered choking tone that's all you can muster when you're upset. And the image in my head was of me, in an identical position and equally broken down, but at the airport, heading home, and leaving this country behind where I feel like I've finally learned to inhabit my body.

But why am I talking about this, really? And why am I actually proud to be sharing this with my online audience? It's because (and excuse my self-righteousness here) change, especially personal change, is really painful, and every time I break down I feel like I'm making space for a slightly broader worldview. Even if it's just accepting that in six months, the trio of wonderful people I've learned to call family will welcome a fourth (But I'm the fourth, insists the finally actualized big sister inside me), at which point a new exchange student will be living in my room. Maybe she'll be wondering, as I did, why a family with such young children would want to host an exchange student, and become frustrated after being woken night after night by the baby's crying. Or maybe she'll be more patient than I was.

It's not the end. But it's exam time and classes are finishing up, and in a few more weeks I'll have only one class remaing: my sociology class at UBA that finally resumed two weeks ago, which has been extended until December 16 and is cutting very unpleasantly into my vacation time. I'm planning for one last adventure though, and all the while my excitement is fused with my dread of saying goodbye, but I remind myself that first I have to make it through tomorrow, which promises to be just as exhausting as today, and more and more it keeps occuring to me, that time is not on my side.

The whole story

I, like many people, am always trying to justify my feelings. If I am stressed, I try to find the root of it. All too often, I attribute my stress to something superficial or circumstantial, looking for the quick-fix instead of seeing my stress as the symptom of a broader problem. More than a month ago I considered changing host families. I felt that I was a burden to them, and I wasn't sure I could stand one more morning of being roused out of my sleep by the shrieks of a two-year-old. And they were actually parenting me; like, did I really need a second family to tell me to clean my room, to set the table, to clean my dishes, to wake up on time, to dry the water that leaks onto the bathroom floor tile after I shower, to keep it down when I come home late at night? Plus, this family doesn't actually have to love me like my real parents do. So I thought I'd just avoid the problem all together and find someone completely negligent who would at least leave me alone.

You can probably see that my logic was backwards all along, but I needed my program coordinator to talk some sense into me before I could see my error. "My family is driving me crazy," I told her, "and I'm thinking of moving out." "Okay Marie, we can certainly help you find new accomodations, but in my experience the student's living situation is the first thing that comes under attack when there's a bigger problem under the surface." And that's when I started crying, so I knew she had touched on something true. Switching families seemed like the immediate solution, but as my coordinator explained later in our session, I would expect the new arrangement to fix all my problems, and then be even more devastated when my familiar adjustment issues came surging back. The act of wrongly attributing my unhappiness to my host family caused the distance between us to grow, but overcoming it was certainly more rewarding than finding a new familiy. And now that I'm here emotionally and physically, I couldn't imagine being with anyone else.

My question now is, what do you do when the feelings and their respective causes are changing and confused? When the distinction between your life and your experiences, and the events of the nation and the people around you is increasingly blurred. Argentina lost a much loved ex-president on Wednesday morning, October 27, the same day as the national census that takes place once every ten years. Everyone was already at home, waiting to be counted, when the news broke and their phones started ringing. By Wednesday night thousands of people had gathered at the Plaza de Mayo, and by Thursday evening more than 25 city blocks of people (in addition to the thousands of people who had already passed through) waited to pay their respects to the body of Nestor Kirchner in La Casa Rosada.

Throughout Thursday, Christina Kirchner, Argentina's current president and the late Nestor's wife, remained by the casket as the multitudes passed through. Many Argentinians were crying or shouting, some gave impassioned speeches in their few moments close to the casket, and others threw their fists into the air or blew kisses to Christina, sending her strength. During the live TV coverage of Thursday's procession, an announcer commented that the women on the scene seemed particularly affected, he imagined, because they were putting themselves in Christina's place. The huge turnout of youth at the La Casa Rosada was also remarked upon, promising a future of (continued) political activism. This morning, the funeral caravan will have to inch it's way through the tightly packed crowds lining the streets between La Casa Rosada and the airport, where the ex-president's body will be taken to Rio Gallegos, near his birthplace. Both an homage to a political figure who represented the popular classes and led the country to economic recovery after the crisis of 2001; and a testament to the obligatory voting system that demands some level of political involvement, the massive amount of Argentines present to pay their respects to the ex-president is incredible to witness.

The death of the ex-president completed the trio: two older family members and the former president of Argentina. So when I passed a group of people gathered around an accident on Wednesday afternoon-a motorbike overturned, a few cars on the sidewalk, medics trying to revive a man lying still on the street-what might have been an anonymous tragedy on any other day felt like a sure sign the world was coming to an end. Deaths can't come in fours. Or maybe that's only the rule for celebrities, but it's like when the universe knows you've detected a pattern in the way it operates, it upturns everything just so you remember that it's in control.

What an odd time for my parents to be visiting. They're getting a powerful glimpse of Argentinian culture, but far from home and out of touch at a critical time for our family. "The one good thing about us being here," said my dad after receiving sad news from the states, "is that we're together." Which is the scariest thing when I consider the future of my own life, on a small scale, and on a much larger scale, that of Christina and Argentina. And how you can be expected to continue representing yourself in the truest way possible when you are apart from the people that make you whole.

Or if that was unclear

I'm dating Wolverine. Also... I know you've all been desperately waiting for a new post. So much so you've resorted to checking OTHER people's blogs who are also in Buenos Aires, which I just can't abide by. Unfortunately (but also thankfully), there's not too much to report from this hemisphere. After a long, but ultimately rewarding, adjustment period, I'm actually starting to see myself here permanently, so it's crazy to think that I'm nearly half way through the "academic" semester. Although academic is a generous term for describing the university system here, considering that only now am I starting to think about catching up with my readings. In addition, certain departments of the University of Buenos Aires are in the midst of a student takeover (related to the poor condition of many university buildings), so I've been over a month without my Sociology of Culture class.

I've been observing in a minimalistic sense most of the recent Jewish holidays and seeking out cafes in which to pass hours ordering pastries to make doing homework a little more glamorous. I've been checking things off my Buenos Aires to-do list, like exploring the Chinatown area of Belgrano (although I have an external motivation for going there as well), seeing Fuerza Bruta, this wild and creative acrobatics/dance company, visiting the Japanese Garden, the Botanical Gardens, and the Palermo Zoo, eating good pizza and hot chocolate and churros and taking advantage of the fact that I can drink legally here by ordering fancy delicious drinks (and even beer, which it turns out I love!). Well, I'm rambling, but these past few weeks have been beautifully indulgent.

Now I'm finally buckling down since all my work is catching up with me. My studiousness may be shortlived, though, since we have a program trip to Jujuy this weekend, which I hear is amazing, and it's feeling more like spring every day in Buenos Aires. I know it's been a long time since my last post, but I'm going to try to be more dilligent about keeping current in the coming weeks. Thanks for following and my thoughts are never far from home.

Lol this pretty much sums it up

Sunday afternoon

Since I'm unable to format this properly, top is a small glass plate made by yours truly, left is a street view of a large ferria in San Telmo, right is a pair of tango dancers, and bottom is one of many cool illustrations on the side of a building.

Last night I lived my worst [social] nightmare: I'm at a fancy open-air party on the rooftop of a bar where everyone is gorgeous and heavily made-up, chatting around tables over glasses of wine or standing around in sealed off groups, leaning in to hear each other over the sound of music and other conversations. The only person that talks to me is a 60-year-old man that asks me in broken English, "Che, linda, where you from?" The only people I even remotely know dislike me, ignore me, or make me uncomfortable and the friends I was supposed to meet never show up (read: were too drunk to move in somebody's apartment). Needless to say, after one unforgettable conversation and a visit to the bathroom, I cut my losses and went home.

But after that sucky night, it was practically a requirement that today be fun. Soon after waking up, I had my second lesson in glass working, a hobby of my host father's. Francisco has an entire upstairs studio connected to a terrace that overlooks the city where he pursues this passion, once a means of income, now purely recreational. He took lessons many years ago but now studies techniques from beautiful illustrated books. Angel, a friend in my program who lives with Francisco's mother, came over for her first glass working lesson and stayed for lunch. Afterwards, we visited La Boca, a big tourist destination in the south eastern corner of the city of Buenos Aires. It was overcast, but we could still admire the brightly-colored buildings and enjoy walking up and down Caminito. We stayed long enough for Angel to do the requisite photoshoot with one of the suave tango dancers that line the street and steal ideas from a craft booth displaying glass chimes and jewelery.

Next, we took a brief tour of La Casa Rosada, "the official seat of the executive branch of the government of Argentina, and the offices of the President" (according to Wikipedia). We saw one beautiful, ornately decorated room, in addition to several simple but large rooms, adorned only with large framed photographs of notable figures in Argentina's history. Afterwards, we went to one of the free performances at the tail end of the tango festival in Buenos Aires. I'm kicking myself for not planning ahead enough to attend any of the ticketed events, but fortunately there are several free, first-come, first-served shows and dances this weekend before the festival ends on Tuesday. For a while, we watched the couples that occupied a designated dancing area and then went in search of food along a large pedestrian walkway lined with stores, restaurants, street vendors, karaoke singers, and the most upscale mall I've ever been into. We stumbled upon a small helado shop (I was drooling over my dulce de leche granizado and crema moka), got completely disoriented, and then parted ways.

And to complete this quintessentially/touristy/stereotypically Argentinian day, I got empanadas and pizza (don't judge me) for dinner from a greasy Resto-Bar two blocks from my apartment. I'm pretty sure it's really starting to show, though, because instead of whistling or making kissing noises, a Man That Might Have Catcalled (in better circumstances) shouted out, "Boom boom!" as I walked by.

Back to the city again (or, "It's been a while," pt. 3)

After Iguazu, we headed back to Buenos Aires once again to dive into classes. "Dive" is actually the perfect term to explain how I felt this past week: like I was falling headfirst, floundering, scrambling to try to piece together my class schedule while juggling sports, music and social events. Really a better title for this segment would be "Crying in public places." But did I give in to the terror and the loneliness? Did I ask myself, "Who do you think you are, galavanting around Buenos Aires like you own the place?" Did I call myself a fraud, think myself incapable and deluded? Yes. Yes, I did.

But then something remarkable happened (and I'm feeling very Eat, Pray, Love as I write this): Things came together. Everything that had been whirling around ten feet above my head finally settled, and after my class let out this past Thursday, August 19, exactly four weeks after my arrival in Buenos Aires, I could breath (I was going to write "I felt ten pounds lighter," but that would be the exact opposite of the truth). I have a class schedule, a frisbee team, a private lessons teacher-it's still the beginning, but it's certainly the makings of a (thank goodness) routine. And as for my fortune... well, that's a theme for another post.

I went to Iguazu! (or, "It's been a while, pt. 2")

And it was big! But, as I told my mom (I know it sounds spoiled), waterfalls aren't my favorite natural wonder. So although I'm glad to have seen it, I wouldn't go back a second time.

It's been a while

But let's just get right back into it!

In my room here, there's a fortune from a fortune cookie taped to the mirror that says, "Buscate un buen compañero de viaje antes de buscar la ruta"; essentially, "Find a good travel companion before finding your route." More on that theme later!

So these past few weeks have been really busy, and for the sake of time I'll try to keep my descriptions brief. I'll talk about what I actually did first, and then talk about my feelings (minimally!). Before school started, we went on a program-organized trip to San Antonio de Areco, a small province about two hours outside of Buenos Aires. It was relaxing.

There was really good meat.

And a horse show:

That got kind of intimate...

Then it was back to the city, where classes started soon after. Chaos ensued. But after the first week of classes, we had a long weekend so...

Paciencia y fe

Although I wasn't the first to pair these virtues, I've found myself calling upon them countless times in the past few weeks-patience while I reorient myself to Argentinian time, something as elastic and subjective as life itself (in this way it's more genuine than American time, which constructs a fear of being late or having to hurry), and faith that I will begin to feel at home, however long that might take. That said, I have the twin hope that my life in the United States and at Wesleyan might feel as full of promise and possibility as it does right now.

I feel like there's so much room to grow here. I am making choices to pass my time doing things I find fulfilling, and I've barely even begun to explore the city. But after all the cultural and linguistic barriers I will have to break down just to survive here, will I be able to translate this experience to my life at home? Study abroad advisors say that students often experience more severe culture shock upon their return to the United States, and I'm already dreading it. I know it's fruitless to think so far into the future, but as with several other things in my life that I've started with relish but suspected were finite, I feel an enormous sense of loss before the adventure has even begun.

Yes, I will take advantage of every day I have here until I run out of money or strength, or both. This merely serves as a gesture to remember the reality of my time here before I lose myself completely in wonder.

Thanks, mom

"So glad you're doing this. I'm sending the [blog] address out to family/friends/the whole world."

Cool -.-

Some culture

Every year, thousands of Argentinians march to commemorate the death of a national hero. July 26th, 2010 was the 58th anniversary of Eva (Evita) Perón's death, and I was lucky enough to take part in this tradition. That evening, the streets were packed with people brandishing homemade torches (often abandoned and left blazing on the streets and sidewalks), fireworks, huge signs and flags. There were several groups of percussionists, slow-moving trucks, and people with microphones leading the crowd in rallying cries. At the conclusion of the march, there was a huge stage on which hundreds stood or were seated , from which several politicians and social leaders spoke to the crowd. I'm afraid I can't translate much of what was said, but there was a video montage that made me tear up. Needless to say, it was an emotional night, although as a foreigner, I may not understand the true significance of Evita's image in Argentina's collective memory.

The next evening, I went with my host family to a performance by a percussion ensemble called La Bomba de Tiempo. It was a special winter break performance, so there were tons of kids with their families. Before they opened the doors, we stood in a line that was blocks long. The concert was in an open air complex and featured several well-known Argentinian children's performers. The percussion group played for hours, rarely stopping, and encouraged people to dance and clap along nearly the whole time.

Finally, last night I met several friends at a bar called Alamo. It was packed at midnight and only got busier throughout the night. Although we made our best effort to practice our Spanish, it quickly became evident to everyone that we were Americans. Luckily, the bar seemed to attract a fairly international crowd, so we weren't the only non-Spanish speakers. Around three, we left and the line out front had finally diminished, but inside the crowd showed no sign of thinning.

Our program coordinators joke that Argentinians are so busy with work, school and socializing that extranjeros often wonder when they sleep. But seriously... when??

On "Galletitas"

A brief revelation on "galletitas," or little cookies. It's easy to accuse a cookie of being too dry. In fact, I often become enraged when I consider the baker that carelessly abandons her cookies in the oven until they are so overdone that they more closely resemble crackers than cookies. But never did I consider that I was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle: that these small cookies, in their assorted shapes, sizes and colors, relatively flavorless and dry as bone, were incomplete. They were missing their soul mate. The poor things were never meant to be consumed alone, and to do so is as fruitless and dissatisfying as eating a cigarette. No, you musn't forget, these cookies are meant to be dipped in hot tea or coffee, or they will leave in your mouth a fine dusting of sadness, a last reminder of the empty life they led.

Save yourself the pain; dip then delight in the fusion of flavors and textures of a rogue cookie, tamed. And before you condemn the idiot baker that ruins batch after batch, consider that she may have had far grander plans for these galletitas than you can possibly conceive.

Getting settled

I just finished unpacking most of my belongings. I'm now living with my host family, composed of a young couple, Verónica and Francisco, and their almost three-year-old daughter Manuela. They have a lovely house/apartment a short busride away from the international university FLACSO. Most rooms have dramatic high ceilings, which gives the house a spacious, if drafty, feel. I have a nice bedroom with a desk, lots of closet space, and a loft for the bed.

My host family is napping now after we all spent a long day with Francisco's extended family. I was feeling so confident in my Spanish, having successfully conversed with my immediate host family over several meals, but listening to fifteen or more Argentinians chatting around a dinner table was humbling, to say the least. (I literally couldn't understand anything... to say the most.) The conversation rarely turned to me, but when it did, I had to ask people to repeat even the simplest questions, like where I was from and what I was studying.

The meal we shared that afternoon was extensive. The main course was essentially a fondue with a base of sardines, some kind of dairy product and several other ingredients I couldn't identify. Into the sauce we dipped lightly steamed vegetables (broccoli, cauliflower, butternut sqash, brussel sprouts, potatoes), as well as raw vegetables (carrots, leaves of cabbage, radishes, tomatoes) and cubes of ham. For dessert, we had what I can only describe as chocolate and dulce de leche flavored ice cream logs in addition to assorted sweets from an Arabic bakery, including a flaky, syrup-drenched pastry similar to baklavah.

I've barely been awake for ten hours but I'm already exhausted. In my defense, it's a cold, rainy Sunday in a new country. But I'm getting settled.

First Day in Buenos Aires

Today was my first day in Buenos Aires. I had my first Argentinian empanada de pollo, café con leche and walked around the city for a little while with some new acquaintences. I'm writing on a small travel computer which I will do my best to keep safe. Although I was looking forward to having a low-tech experience here, the computer helps me feel more connected to home, which I want, at least for now. I meet my host family tomorrow, but between now and then we have an introduction dinner and a full day of orientation activities.

I still hardy feel like I'm here, in a new city, with a group of people I've (for the most part) never met before. I can only take it a day at a time, because thinking too far into the future is so overwhelming. I'm dazed, but I'm also very exited to see what these next few weeks will bring. Many things feel backwards: it's winter, I'm far away from friends and family, and the language is unfamiliar. But remarkably (as Alex recently pointed out), here I am on the opposite side of the globe, and yet everything is right side up.

Independence Day

Happy fourth of July (tomorrow)! This is my first official post, so welcome! I figured I've been on the verge of a breakdown for long enough (I always cry before big life changes) that I should just go ahead and write already. To give you an idea of what you're getting into, I envision this blog as a cross between Adventure Time and True Life: I'm relocating for love. Anyway, the countdown is on! I leave for Argentina on the evening of July 21st, so... whatever, you do the math. I'd like to post several times a month while I'm abroad, but I won't have my laptop with me, so posts may be brief and low tech. You'll experience the pictures, recipes, and dance moves in person.

But before I think of returning to the United States, I have to think about the excruciating and complex process of leaving. It means saying goodbye to close friends and family until *gulp* next year (Which reminds me, New Years Eve party at my house!). It also means that I'll have to buy five months worth of shampoo and conditioner, which is probably the hardest thing to conceptualize.

In addition, I'd like to make a few shout outs. I'd like to begin by thanking all the families that paid me to watch their children this summer, even though the little brats never even gave me one stinking silly band. Whatever. That money will pay for many completely legal alcoholic beverages as well as a few weeks of travel at the end of the program if all goes as hoped. Next, I'd like to say a brief prayer for all the cows that will die by some gentle Argentinean man's hand so that I might have several tender rib roasts per day. Finally, I'd like to bid bon voyage to friends that are also traveling abroad next semester, as well as those that remain at Wesleyan to hold down the fort until spring.

Again, Happy Fourth! Light fireworks, attend a BBQ, bear arms (and more, rawr), GO USA!