Damn You, Fibratel!

Dear readers (all three of you) Please have patience with me. I want to post to my blog a lot more than I actually do. You see, since I moved into this apartment about two weeks ago, I've been stealing wireless internet from one of my gracious Argentine neighbors. I think this neighbor is a few floors away, though, so my connection is very spotty. Sometimes I can internet up a storm. Sometimes, I have to pray to a special oracle whilst holding my laptop to the third star on Orion's belt, meanwhile, my sister does a rain dance. All the while we have to tear our clothes and put ashes in our hair like in Jesus times. Needless to say, my connecction isn't that reliable. So, we have these people called Fibratel, who occasionally call and rattle off a bunch of spagnol, and all I can usually catch is a day of the week. So Jen and I stay in all that day and wait for them to show up. The first time they showed up, it was raining, which apparently limits their ability to go on the roof and give us our own connection. The second time they came, this morning, three guys hung around the place for an hour, left a wad of wires and cut ends of plastic all over the place and then muttered "problem" and left in a van. I hope that they eventually come back to give us our own, dedicated internet line. Until then, expect my posts here to be spotty and please don't expect pictures. Uploading a picture under these circumstances will take a week. Ok, I'm going to press POST and then walk backwards three times in a circle and recite the Magna Carta in Swahili.

Jenny Craig, seriously, don't come to Buenos Aires

It's no secret that my sister and I had planned to, and are happily partaking in, Buenos Aires' liquid offerings. I mean alcohol. And sometimes water. From the tap. Which made me sick. While out enjoying our beers and such in cafes and bars, though, we have noticed an alarming trend: no one in Buenos Aires is fat. Huh, the fact is alarming mainly because people here eat ALL THE TIME. Seriously. Every single time you sit down at a place, even for a coffee, the waiter puts a little snack on your table. Sometimes, it's a few cookies with the coffee, or with beer, its usually potato chips or popcorn. (you usually get a tiny little glass of orange juice with your coffee, too, but that's not what I'm talking about right now) So, no one is fat, yet they're daily injesting enough carbs to stuff a horse. It is just little bites, as the pictures below show, but the people here eat every bit. My sister and I usually don't even touch it, not because we're watching our weight, but mainly because we're pretty sure the snacks on our table had a previous life on another table. Here's another oddity: people here hardly drink. They have A beer and then call it a night. So, imagine a bar full of sober Argentinians, pan over to drunkey Jen and me on beer two. Then, the bartender comes over and gives us our third, untouched helping of popcorn, as if to say, eat up drunkies, you don't want to fall into a pothole on your walk home. Below is a sample of some of these delicious snack offerings...

Las Aventuras De Pilar Leccion #3

In our last dialogue, we found Pilar waiting for a bus to the city center. The bus arrived late, so Pilar had to take a taxi at the last minute in order to make it to her job interview on time. When she gets to the city center, Pilar realizes that she has left her money at home and has no way to pay for the taxi. She goes to a phonebooth and calls her boyfriend, Ramiro, who works in a building close by, to see if he can bring some money to her.



PILAR: Hola, esta? Ramiro?

Hello, is Ramiro there?

OPERADOR: No, Ramiro esta en su lonche

No, Ramiro is at lunch

PILAR: Podrias le dice que Pilar se llame?

Could you please tell him Pilar called?

OPERADOR: Pilar? Pilar? Oh, si. Ramiro me dijo que si llama a Pilar, necesito te digo que Ramiro no esta el la pais.

Pilar? Pilar? Oh, yes. Ramiro told me that if Pilar calls, I'm supposed to tell you that Ramiro is no longer in the country

PILAR: El no esta en el Pais? El no melo dijo. Cual Pais?

He's not in the country? He didn't tell me that. Which country?

OPERDOR: Uhhh, indefinidamente. Uhhh, Aleman, no, Grecia. Si Grecia.

Um, indefinitely. Um, Germany, no, Greece. Yeah, Greece.

PILAR: Un momento. Esta Julia?

Wait a tick, is this Julia?

OPERADOR: Uhh, Julia, quienes Julia? No. Mi nombre es Moni..elle.

Um, Julia. Who is Julia? No, my name is Mon-shell

PILAR: Escucha, chingasa. Cuando se regresa Ramiro a su trabajo dice que esta no es el finalmente. Y le dice que necesito cinco pesos para la taxi!

Listen, skank. When Ramiro gets back to work, tell him that this is not over. And tell him that I need five pesos for a taxi!

In dialogue #6, find out what Pilar discovers in the Cemetary.

Even the Trash Speaks My Name

I told everyone who reads this blog (which I think is now about 3 people, thangs, guys) that this blog would be about my heroic and intriguing ex-pat adventure in South America. So, here I am: Buenos Aires, Argentina.... The beef, the wine, the tango. Everything here is gorgeous. (I havent yet sampled the wine, beef or tango, but my travel guide tells me I'm in for a treat.) Anyway, I was looking for an apartment today with my sister. The appointment was at 6pm, so of course we had a coffee to wake up, and a little snack at about 5:50, then ran over to the place we wanted to see. We couldn't figure out the intercom system at the building, so we tried to sneak in when this old lady was coming out (who, by the way had lit a cigarette in the lobby whilst checking her mail) We tried to do a little switch-er-oo on her and keep the door open when she exited, but she had a little freak-out and yanked the door shut before we could go in, all the while shouting obscenities in spanish (they speak spanish here) at us. Finally, we got up to see the apartment. It's a nice little place in a very fashionable part of town called Palermo Hollywood. I can't believe I'm moving back to Hollywood. My sister and I think the place is amazing, however it is the only apartment we have seen in Buenos Aires. The price is right, the location is right, but can we be sure? We know nothing about this country, have no idea about prices, neighborhoods or anything. So, we left the apartment somewhat confused: it looks good, but what do we know? Suddenly (that's right, suddenly) My sister points out something odd: All the trashcans on the street of the apartment in question bear my own name, Nick, scrawled in grande Sharpie. This must be the place, yes, the trash speaks to me... We called they guy later in the day and took the apartment. It's perfect. We have a fold-out couch, by the way, so come on by.

Texting Y Pacifico

Yeah, so.... I leave for Buenos Aires in 12 hours and what am I doing? Drinking beer and instant messaging on the computer. Behind me is a HUGE chink of clothes, books, miscellaneous travel items, a ceramic duck and an empty backpack. It's not all going to fit. No, it's not going to fit. I've just spent the last few days paring down my posessions to what will fit in a backpack. It's occurred to me though, that whatever I do put into this backpack right now, and what doesn't end up fitting, doesn't really matter because you could really chuck the whole lot into the trash and I probably wouldn't miss anything (except for the Sonicare toothbrush). So, as I start this new adventure (hokily if this post is any indication) I will remember that the Stuff we aquire, treasure and keep doesn't matter as much as the people we love and the places we go. My next post will be from Argentina. So long as my computer isn't stolen by militants.

Fording Right Along

Yup, my life is so exciting that I'm going to do a post on Gerald Ford. I'm not really going to talk about his presidency, since he was a republican and both Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld were in his administration, etc., But I am going to use him as an example of something that sort of boggles my mind. OK, get this: Geral Ford died at age 93. He looked pretty strapping and healthy to the end owing, I'm sure, to the rampant sobriety in his household seeing as how his wife ran a rehab center. So, that puts his birth year at 1913. He lived 93 good years. Wow, that means:

When the stock market crashed and the US went into a depression in 1929, he was already 16 years old, oh my god.

When World War II started, he was 28. He was actually too old to serve in combat and ran a physical educatioin program on a battle ship.

When the Beatles appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show, he was 50!

When Nixon resigned he was 60.

When my sister was born, he was 70.

This guy lived forever. Hariet Tubman died the same year he was born. Gerald Ford lived on this planet while people who served in the Civil War were alive. Holy crap. You know what else was born in 1913? The Woolworth Building.

Pearly Whites

I know a lot of people read several blogs a day. I'm personally addicted to towleroad.com and dlisted.com. Addicted! It would be my dream to have someone as addicted to my blog, but with the addition of this post today, I am beginning to realize that may never happen. Because today, I'm not going to talk about how Nicole Ritchie got arrested for a DUI this morning while driving THE WRONG WAY on the 134 freeway. And I'm not going to talk about the death of Pinochet and give my own two cents about what his life and passing has to do with the world we live in. No, brace yourselves, I'm going to talk about a toothbrush. Yup. So, I went to the dentist the other day and the guy was like, whoa, dude, do you like use a jackhammer to clean your teeth? Because those things are all fugged up. (He doesn't really talk like that.) So apparently, I'm what's called an aggressive brusher and am therfore daily ripping the enamel off my teeth. I was wondering why I couldn't drink a glass of cold water without tearing up. The solution? Simple, get an electric toothbrush. So I go to Target and HOLY CRAP electric toothbrushes start at $80. You can get one they costs $150 that probably does your dishes as well. So, I charge the thing up, press the button and let it loose on my teeth. Hmm, interesting, tingly, not alltogether uncomfortable, you need to keep it in there for two minutes, the thing will stop itself in two minutes. Two minutes, brush brush brush, HOLY CRAP two minutes is a long time. For those of you thinking, no, it's not a long time. You're wrong. It's forever. Or so I thought. OK, here's the deal. At first, I was struggling with things to do for the two minutes. Maybe I'll brush my tongue, I thought, or spend a moment massaging the gums, la la la, two minutes. I've used the toothbrush for two weeks now, and let me tell you: things are different. Now, two minutes is not nearly enough time to accomplish all the brushing I need to do. In fact, I've found so many things to do with my brush that I only get through one half of my mouth by the time the thing turns off. I've even tried to count--thirty seconds each mouth section. But I think the sonic vibrations mess up my counting. Sometimes I'll even press the button again and go another two minutes. I'm really flummoxed here. I feel so constrained by this two minute thing. Who decided we should brush for two minutes? I'm going crazy. I'll report back when I've sorted this situation out. Anyway, I recommend an electric toothbrush to anyone who really wants to spend good, quality time thinking about their brushing habits. Riveting stuff, I know. I can't wait to get to Argentina so I'll have something to talk about.