The Slaughterhouse Fair, an indirect translation

The Feria de Mataderos happens weekly every Sunday in the Mataderos barrio in BA. The district was once called Nueva Chicago and used to be the place where cattle met their deaths, and were subsequently salted or made into wallets and shipped all around the world.

Things have changed.
Mataderos is no longer the center of mass bovine death and is now, more or less, a quiet suburb of BA and home to the Feria where people sell choripan (sausage sandwiches) out of their windows and folklorico dancers
and musicians take the stage.
A little hokey, but it was fun. Above, in the Hat, next to a stall of foam puppets, absorbing the native culture by process of passive diffusion.

Here I am messing with an alpaca, in the infamous and illustrious Hat. I told it a dirty joke about llamas, but alpacas apparently can't take a joke as well as their other camelid brethren. (The "La llama que llama" commercials are hilarious.)

I bought my first maté cup here, but I took forever choosing one at the stand. The man engraving the cups just laughed at my indecisiveness as I picked up, put down, and picked up, again, every single maté on the table. Porteños are really big on Ferias (fairs), and there are quite a few every weekend. It's a place for the artisan market to show its wares and take money from tourists, and a destination for live music while sipping maté with friends on the grass in the park.

What made Mataderos different was the presence of horses and a more folksy vibe. There were a couple good fusion folklorico/rock bands as well as traditional music and dances with panuelos (scarves) celebrating what is becoming a more and more tenuous link with the rural guacho past.

I had thought it was going to be like a county-fair, with things like barrel racing and breed shows. I was very wrong. For the horse riding competitions, the horses definitely raced on an asphalt street. It was a Carrera of skill, and a rider would gallop toward a very tiny ring hung from a bar several hundred yards away and attempt to snatch the ring at full speed. Hopefully the video I shot of it below works!



---Nicole
P.S. A thank you to my friends who took pictures of me in the Hat!

The Hot Streak

For whatever reason, I've been putting off writing this post that I've had in my head for a little while now. Mostly, I have been waiting for something terrible to happen to me, actually. Partly because I'm more used to writing self-deprecating posts but also because I'm a little superstitious about broadcasting good fortune. The truth is, I am on a hot streak. And having good luck makes me sure that bad luck is going to follow, especially if the world knows.

Perceived path of my life

The past two weeks has been a string of utterly shocking pleasant surprises. So many things that I have wanted, and a few I didn't even know I wanted, have gently fallen into my lap after 2 years of struggling. And while this success is a product of all the sweat and tears I put into everything, it's still strange to me. Like a dog catching its tail after chasing it for years.

Seriously, look at my life in list format:

1. I got an internship at NPR.

2. I was chosen for this fantastic D.C. Reads Team leader position.

• It pays me enough money to in turn, pay my rent.
• I genuinely love this program and want it to succeed.

3. Paula Poundstone randomly started following my twitter.

• I only have 4 followers total.
  
• All of my tweets are completely inane.
• How did anyone, let alone someone whose work I enjoy, find it?

4. Classy Yet Dangerous (my radio show) got a prime-time spot on Thursday nights.

5. I won 4 dollars in the lottery.

• That is a 1 dollar return on my investment.

So naturally, I was pretty relieved when I got acute food poisoning from the airport this morning on a 90 minute flight from North Caroline to D.C. Let's just say that that Egg McMuffin got a lot more air than God intended and I still have the dry heaves 5 hours later. Now it feels like the hot streak is over and whatever positive things happen aren't assisted by luck. Guess I was ready for a fresh start anyway.

How do we know you're really in BA?

PICTURE TIME!

Here is my propaganda for the People's Farm Collective of the Estancia. ¡Viva la Revolución!

I'm not turning into a communist here in the homeland of Che Guevara, but it is weird to be in a place where "socialist" is not a dirty word. People here aren't as sure as Americans that democracy is a close buddy of capitalism, and there is a firm belief that anyone in power is corrupt. If they have gotten power, they did it through an underhanded way and they, as a representative of the government, are trying to screw you as an individual. It's a very livable kind of mistrust, and by livable, I mean it's a basic assumption about the world that subtly colors everything. It is, of course, is not true for everyone, but it's strong enough to make me pause to remind myself of it when I hear someone comment on politics.

Here I am at La Bombonera, the stadium for the Boca Juniors futbol team, which in BA is one of the two big teams, the other being River Plate.

Yeah, I don't know anything about futbol. Futbol is kind of fun to watch, but I take my dad's view on it: You can watch for 2 hours and have nothing happen and have it all decided by 1 penalty kick. Luckily, I really don't have to be into futbol because it's more of a guy thing, so no one really expects me to know anything. All I have to know is who Maradona is and what he's doing (or not, since he's no longer coaching the Argentina team).

We went on a day trip/pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Lujan, a town outside of the capital where the Virgin, miraculously, wanted to stay. At first, it was kind of boring because a church is a church, and since we didn't feel like taking back gallon jugs of the miraculous Lujan holy water, there wasn't much for us to do. In the late afternoon, however, a cultural festival that was part of the year-long activities sponsored by the government for the bicentennial celebration began in the plaza. They really like drums in BA, and high schools had crazy sequined costumes, giant flags, and drum lines. The guys would play the drums, and the girls would dance behind. The whole procession moved very slowly through the plaza, and it was led by this large man in the picture. All he had was a yellow sign that said "Cultura." We had NO idea what was going on, and it was bizarre, frustrating, fun, bewildering, and a textbook case of culture shock.

(A sequin Goku makes an unexpected appearance in Lujan. The drum groups had a penchant for putting sequined cartoons onto their fringed polyester costumes.)

--Nicole

P.S. > Congratulations, Megan!

The Wackiest Phone Interview Ever

Thursday has always been my favorite day of the week, but last Thursday was an emotional kidney punch. My cherished younger brother Jake was moving into CU on the same day that I had the biggest interview of my life so far. I was torn between shameless weeping and excitedly preparing for a phone call with National Public Radio, which was completely surreal. Craziest of all, CU move-in and my interview were scheduled at the same time. It was a little like every sitcom plot ever where the main character has to chose between supporting her family and chasing her dreams. Luckily for me, this was a phone interview, so I could have my cake and eat it too. I crammed myself into the car, carving out a small niche to tape up my papers and assemble my makeshift office.

Every successful phone interview requires a basil plant shoved between your knees

The interview went okay, although I did muddle my way through one or two responses. When I found out that they were only taking one intern, I resigned myself to be happy I made it to the second stage. I should explain that this is not the first, second, or even third time that I've applied to intern at NPR. Furthermore, I have a big academic crush on the entire institution; I've been avidly listening to NPR ever since I can remember. In high school, I know I wrote at least one speech and one college entrance essay about how important NPR is to me. Dorky, but true. At least talking to someone who actually works at HQ was an accomplishment to me.

So on Friday, I went into work normally. Except I decided to leave my cell phone in the car for once. (Normally I take it in with me and it detracts from my productivity). At about 10:30, I received a frantic string of emails from my mom, telling me to pick up my phone.

It said: "NPR called-- you got the job". My first thought was that this was a cruel joke to encourage me to carry my phone. But even my mom wouldn't get my hopes up like that. I ran out of the office and skipped to the car. I still can't believe it, but I have the official documents to prove it. I'll be working at the Social Media desk this fall and hopefully contributing to "Intern Edition" as well. (Intern edition is this collaborative multimedia project that sounds like the Disney channel original movie Camp Rock but for radio interns.)

I'm so excited, so nervous and ultimately, so relieved I will have valid stuff to blog about in the fall. Wish me luck! :S

--Megan

THUNDA THUNDA THUNDA THUNDERCATS!

(Above: This statue of 3 women in a plaza in downtown BA reminded me of the Holy Trinity {a.k.a. your humble authors})

I'm in the middle of week 3 here in BA, and I'm getting to the point where things are less of an adventure and more of a draining culture difference, like: "Why do the oreos taste different?" and "Why is there ham on every sandwich?" and "No, I don't want mayonnaise ON EVERYTHING." The everyday stuff can be the most difficult and frustrating.

My Spanish is coming along, though. I'm functional. I can make sentences in order to ask for things, moving beyond pointing and saying "That. I want that. Please." to "Pardon me, ma'am/sir, but I would like to try that flavor of ice cream." The initial deluge of incomprehensible conversation is turning into more of a small stream, but it is still deceptively deep.

I speak like a child and to certain extent, most people treat me like one. They try to help me on the bus and speak very slowly, using gestures. It makes sense, because I'm something of a liability. I don't understand the way the world works here, and so I do need to be babysat a little. It's very humbling to have to learn the meanings of words all over again, imitating what the adults are doing and making lots of mistakes. One time, I turned on the hot water to wash the dishes, and my host mother said "No te quema!" I then I burned myself because the water gets hotter here than in the States. Now I know what quemar means.
Lessons here are earned.

At the same time, the familiar is never more than a step away; globalization keeps popping up when I least expect it. There was a big thunderstorm last night, and while talking about the weather, my host brother asked me what the English word for "trueno" was, and I said "Thunder."

"Como Thundercats*?" he asked. It took me a moment to register he was referencing the cartoon, because I never expected to find people who knew 1980s Japanese show about felinoid aliens in BA. Being wrong is becoming a habit of mine. He had grown up with same cartoon I had, and watched shows like Thundercats and The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers on TV. I've heard little girls referencing Scooby Doo in the street. What I had thought was American pop culture was actually global pop culture. What does it mean? You figure it out. I'm trying to make maté by heating the water in batches in the microwave because they won't let me use the gas stove. Gas stove + handheld lighter + me = What could possibly go wrong?

--Nicole
*Please click here for the awesome theme song!

The freak out

My goal is to freak out as much as humanly possible right now so I can be totally Zen when I arrive in Kenya. My motto has always been that pure exhaustion does wonders to calm the nerves. Right now I’ve started the daunting task of packing more than a week in advance of my departure. My greatest challenge is figuring out how to mix Nairobi chic or what Kenyans call “looking smart” with clothing more suited towards developing a new appreciation for the great outdoors.

I’m not ashamed to say that I initially based my packing on what I’ve seen other people wearing in their Facebook pictures during their study abroad programs. It doesn’t matter what corner of the world you’re in right now. I have Facebook creeped your travel photos. It doesn’t even matter if you were my roommate freshman year or if we’re complete strangers. If you have photos online I have probably seen them.

If it’s Armageddon my suggestion would be to head over to your local Walgreens as I did. They have everything you could possibly need to survive nuclear fallout and much, much more. My purchases there included individual bug spray towelttes (deceptively difficult to find in other stores), safety pins (another hot commodity), and my personal favorite, Dr. Scholl’s Foldable Flats with Stylish Wristlet (a must have for any traveler).

Back home, I unpacked my purchases. Listening to Shakira’s “She Wolf” I ended up trying on every article of clothing I own. Unnecessary? A tad bit overzealous? Nay friends. Despite the differences in climate, I’d identified the basic articles of clothing that are must haves. The only problem was that, for example, I had difficulty justifying not bringing one of my six black sweaters.

I feel like Nicole told me this secret, but I’m going to lay everything I’m planning on packing out the night before and leave behind at least 40% of it, hopefully more. Packing can be a cathartic and constructive way of addressing travel jitters. Maybe you really can transfer your nerves to inanimate objects, packing them away for the journey that lies ahead.

I just hope that I don’t transfer all of my nerves to inanimate objects or else I definitely won’t make the one bag per passenger rule.

-Jennifer

*Please note that the lack of appropriate transitions between thoughts in this post may be related to the author’s consumption of copious cups of Yerba mate.**

Internship Phase 2: Nutting up

Day 12 was a new low in my internship; I drove 50 minutes to Boulder to do 15 minutes of work. So there I was, sitting in the parking lot again; dejected, confused and on the phone with my mother. As far as I could tell, I was doing everything right, but no one would give me any tasks to complete. After listening to my frustrated rant, mom gently explained in her delicate "mother-knows-best" tone of voice,

"Sweetie... you kinda just need to nut up." Her words, not mine. It's true though: I was so shy and panicked that I was holding myself back. Yeah, I know, everyone gets nerves. But until you've sat in the Women's restroom for 5 minutes giving yourself a pep talk, trust me, you're not that nervous. I'm pretty sure I walked into the office like I was a drug mule going through customs for at least the first three weeks on the job. What was so terrifying to me? Only everything!



See, part of me is still convinced that I was hired on a complete lark because I really have no job description beyond "intern". So for me, that meant that talking to people in my office was sure to lead to disaster; maybe they would unceremoniously throw me out when they found out I didn't contribute anything. I recently discovered, however, that every person at my office is exceptionally nice.

There is even a woman who looks genuinely sorry when she can't find anything for me to do. And putting my nerves behind me has actually lead to... real work. I can now say I wrote a press release and sound vaguely professional. I am further pleased to report that the other (useful) interns are not 12 years old, like I suspected. They are actually at least 2 years older than me, which helps explain their superior skills.

I'm still mildly terrified of my office, to be honest. But at this point, I have about 2 weeks before it's back to DC and on to the next one. So I am going to do my best to chat up a storm, at least in lieu of actual work.

--Megan

[Update: Also I have become the master of fax/copy/print machines. It's especially satisfying since I know now that other people are incredibly confused by the machine that used to taunt me.]

Thank God for the Internet

I leave for Kenya in 18 days! I’m currently trying to make up for the 20 years I have spent living in Colorado not doing the activities most people associate with natives. The last time I was in a tent was about ten years ago and I just recently bought my first pair of hiking boots. A little known fact is that the people who are most vocal about living the Colorado lifestyle are actually not natives. Speaking in generalities, they’re the kind of people who became lifetime members of REI long before they decided to relocate out West to conquer the Rockies.

I am thrilled to have the opportunity to experience the culture, community, and traditions of Kenya. I am excited to expand my horizons and develop the wilderness skills I don’t currently possess, but I feel woefully unprepared. I went to look at water purifiers and backpacks last week and felt like I was on another planet which is definitely a feeling you want to avoid before you get on a plane to live for three and half months in another country.

A highly educated and experienced backpacker going on my program shared that one of her biggest concerns is getting parasites. “Parasites?” I remember saying to her. “Yeah, there are some that crawl up your legs so you have to have really solid shoes.” Right. Proper footwear to keep the parasites from crawling up your legs and invading your internal organs. Why hadn’t I thought of this?

I shared my mild anxiety with my mom. I explained that it’s not like I’m Malibu Barbie. I genuinely want to go to Kenya to meet the people and learn about their lives. I just have to acknowledge that I may be utterly useless when it comes to gutting a fish or rescuing someone from the grips of hypothermia (ok so probably not a concern I should have for Kenya but still). My mom just looked at me and said, “Oh, so you’re planning on playing a social game instead of a physical one?” I tried explaining how this wasn’t like an episode of Survivor but to no avail.

All I can say for myself is thank god for the internet which is providing the only shot I have at compensating for my lack of legitimate outdoor knowledge. Maybe getting to Kenya will be half the battle for me. We shall see.

A Womifesto

We the Holy Trinity and the Traveling Hat hereby agree to the following terms of use:

1. Never wash the hat. It is acceptable to sanitize the Hat should it be exposed to parasites.
2. Never wear the Hat with large sun glasses. It’s ok to be cheap, but not ok to look like it.
3. Never say the word “curmudgeon” while wearing the Hat. You must also not think to yourself “I am an old curmudgeon’ while wearing the Hat.
4. Never let anyone with a Y chromosome take off the Hat (although you make take it off yourself in his presence).
5. Never use a fake Southern drawl while wearing the Hat. Half a decade of friendship has demonstrated that none of us can produce convincing accents except for those of British and New Jersey housewives.
6. Upon Reunion of the Holy Trinity, you must follow the proper procedures for documenting your time wearing the Hat:
•On the inner lining of the Hat, write, draw, or batik the most exciting location you were at while wearing the Hat.
•On the outer rim of the Hat, add embellishments that symbolize the most daring adventure you had in the Hat.
7. You must write to the Holy Trinity and greater blogosphere over the course of the 3 months no matter how much fun you are or are not indulging in via http://hatrixs.blogspot.com/.
8. The Hat must be passed along to the rest of the Holy Trinity according to the specifications set down by the “Divine Birth of the Hat.” The current schedule is 4 weeks with Nicole in Buenos Aires, followed by 4 weeks with Megan in DC, and finally 4 weeks with Jennifer in Nairobi. Standard shipping charges will be applied.
9. Never wear the Hat while also wearing flip flops (see rule number 2).
10. Remember: Hat = tricks. Tricks = one heck of an adventure.

I am a Salad Dressing

So the first couple days in BA have been good. I'm already an old hand with maté, now on the look-out for my own Thermos, bombilla, and maté set. (Jennifer will love the whole set up when I get back. She was a maté fan, before I was.)

I'm optimistic, despite inauspicious beginnings. I got locked out of my homestay in the first three hours. I misunderstood la señora, and thought we were leaving right away. She had told me to get my coat and be ready to leave in a half hour, and then she left to take out the garbage. Left alone, I began to doubt my understanding of her instructions and went downstairs to the ground level of the apartment building in a panic, thinking she had been waiting on me.

She wasn't there, obviously, and later found me at the apartment door sitting on the stairs. She just started laughing. Nothing but my pride was lost, which, in retrospect, has left me no where to go but up.

The bus here is irritating, but not bad. It's not really a stressful place, and porteños, surprisingly, are not a stressed-out people. I'm surprised because the only other comparisons of large population centers I have are San Jose and San Francisco, which, although wonderful each in their own way, are very stressful, intense kinds of places where being busy and over-whelmed is almost a gauge by which to judge how successful you are. Yes, even the "laid-back" West Coast is full of this kind of atmosphere.

I can't say much for BA yet, obviously, but here are general first impressions only, a quick sketch trying to make sense of what I have seen: long lines of people waiting for buses but no one taps their toes or huffs or looks at their watch all that often; waiting rooms of the typical bureaucratic blank faces of a DMV, but people don't nervously shake their legs or even fidget. The pace is brisk, but there is time for maté and café as well as business. In fact, the people I see exhibiting the most impatience are Americans. I will let you think of good reasons why this might be, and I won't hazard any generalizing guesses about Americans and Porteños. When a friend and I went to eat lunch at a café in a part of the city accustomed to extranjeros, the mozo, or waiter, asked if we wanted to the quick menu because, I guess, being American means eating quickly and leaving. We asked him for the normal menu, but it began the process in my mind of trying to figure out out what makes me culturally American.

Still, being a stranger in a strange land, I am tentatively liking BA. The noise, the press of people, the language, and just the strangeness of it all, is utterly draining. I'm not going native anytime soon, but I am settling, like a shaken bottle vinaigrette dressing.

I'm ready for my close-up, Señor DeMille.

I got bored on the flight to Houston and started ripping out ads from Sky Mall, like this Brobdingnagian Sports Chair or the Street Strider (which is just one synonym away from Street Walker): One is for men compensating for something and other is on par with a Segway but with the exponentially worse addition of physical activity that makes you want to tell them "Just get a bike." But I have left America...

Two cities and 15 hours later, several of the other students in the program met the academic program people at the airport, and they herded us into the atrium to order taxis. When I walked out of the customs area there were television cameras everywhere, and I thought to myself, "I know I'm a big deal, but not television worthy at the moment. I wonder if they heard of our blog?" Alas, this blog is not famous yet, and I paused for second to observe the futbol team that had just walked out. The cameras were there for them, but on the other hand, I was already rubbing elbows with Argentine footballers. Welcome to Buenos Aires.

My host mother is an adorable little woman who bakes cakes, and talks to me all the time. I get about 40% of it, but the constant bombardment is the dictionary definition of immersion. The soft "j" sound, especially in common words like "calle" and "ella" is harder to get used to, but I'll probably be speaking like a porteña soon enough.

We spent the evening with her friend and her American student from the East Coast, sharing maté and talking about all sorts of topics from politics to pizza. Whenever we got stuck on a word or concept (trying explaining what a McGriddle or a guido is in Spanish), the internet was there to save the day. Thank God for technology and wi-fi.

I'm realizing that my Spanish is bad, but it's functional. I lack the discipline to just speak slowly and say things correctly because I want so badly to contribute to the conversation. The result is tons of errores imperdonables and garbled sentences that are more along the lines of "Me Tarzan. You Jane."

And it's also winter here. It'll be above 32 degrees F or 4 degrees C tomorrow. Bienvenido a la Ciudad.

--Nicole

P.S. Props to Megan for figuring out how to subscribe via email. It works now!

Everything is an Opportunity

That is my new mantra for the job. Because it is day 8 of my internship and the most skilled labor that I've done so far was catching a box of paper clips before they splattered all over. (If you're wondering what kind of skills those are exactly, that's mad skillz.) But that doesn't mean I'm not learning anything though. In fact, I'm pretty sure everyday has yielded a useful piece of knowledge.

Take Thursday for instance. When I came in, the only honest-to-God job that I had was getting my W-4 and I9 employment forms turned in. I was pretty happy though, because it gave me at least 20 minutes to look purposeful before I went marauding around looking for odd jobs like a little street orphan. After successfully logging on to the system for the first time ever, I was ready to fax these babies in.

It turns out though, that I'm not entirely proficient with a fax machine. And while I was nonchalantly punching the copy/fax/printer/lifeblood of the office, I overheard a discouraging conversation. Remember how I successfully logged into the system? Turns out that created a whole bunch of security issues that kicked like half of the people off their computers. People who have real work. Realizing that I inadvertently created a mess only spurred me onward though, so I figured out that fax machine like a pro.


Check out these Microsoft paint skills!


After that, there was literally nothing to do, so I drove down to the Home Depot to sit in the parking lot for 90 sad minutes and take notes on my experience. But everything's an opportunity right? Ultimately, I now know how to take out half of my office and how to use a fax machine like a pro. Even if they are archaic and stupid.

--Megan