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??
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??
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