Cultural Differences

When I first arrived in Buenos Aires, I was told to wait in the main terminal for a driver to bring me to my hotel. While waiting I saw a police officer dressed in full body armor. He had a large gun and multiple sticks, which I was sure he could use to beat me down in a moments notice. He walked past me in a slow stagger towards another officer of a similar height and complexion. This second officer had a tattoo on his neck and wore glasses straight out of the Matrix. As the two men neared each other, they looked at each other in a masculine way, and then all of a sudden, gave each other a kiss on the cheek.

Shocked at first by this interaction, I was soon to learn that kissing was just a way of life here. I got to my hotel, and my administrators gave me a kiss on the cheek. I got to my home a few days later and my host mom practically picked me up and launched a kiss at my cheek. A month later, I showed up for my second basketball practice, and was shocked to find a teammate sending me a kiss after I entered. This is just the way it is here. And after I got over the initial shock, it was actually a nice gesture.

This is just one of the many cultural differences that I have encountered while being here. What I’ve found to be the solution is to think with an open mind, and embrace whatever comes my way. Fighting it, and trying to stick to U.S. traditions will just make things harder.

Another cultural difference I noted the first day of school was clothing. In general, Argentines dress better than people from the U.S. On the first day, I show up with one of my friends from the program, and as we run down the steps, a security guard flags us down with a yell in our direction. As we turn around, we see a man pointing at my friend yelling, “No podés entrar sin pantelones y zapatos.” My friend who was wearing shorts and sandals was breaking a dress code we had no idea about.

Beyond these defined rules though, there was also a norm of dressing well. To this day, I’ve still never seen an Argentine wearing sweatpants. They hardly ever wear sneakers and they rarely even wear T-shirts that aren’t expensive and trendy. The average man wears designer jeans, tight button up shirts, and enough gel in their hair to appear as if there is no gel. The average woman wears tight jeans of every color, but the traditional ones, and high-top boots. After a few days dressed in the GW attire of Jeans and a T-shirt, I made the change to button ups and blazers at school. It’ll be nice to return to GW, and show up to class in shorts, sandals and a hoody.

Another cultural difference, that I’ve wrote about a little bit in past entries, is the culture of coffee and dining.  On one of our first nights in Buenos Aires, my program and I went to a restaurant with our administrator, Marcelo. We ate plate after plate of delicious meat for more than an hour and a half, and when we were all prepared to then pay the bill and go, as we would in the U.S., we were shocked to see Marcelo just sitting at the table calmly, demonstrating no signs of expecting to leave. We drank some more wine, and sat for another half hour for so, and then he asked if we wanted coffee and desert. Obviously not turning this down, I ordered a Café con Leche and a desert. In total, we sat there, for way more than three hours. I would learn that this is the norm in Argentine dining. They enjoy dining for the experience, and making a night of it. Granted, Argentina is a developed nation with McDonalds Burger Kings and TV dinners, but on average, the norm is to enjoy a long dining experience.

The coffee places follow the same logic. When you order a coffee here, it comes in a tiny cup, which you are meant to drink with friends in the café. Expecting the same type of service I get in U.S. venues, I was at first upset that I couldn’t just grab a coffee on the go. Although, Buenos Aires still has many Starbucks cafés, which can provide this service, the majority of the other places, find the practice of “café para llevar” or coffee to go, to be an odd concept.

As with the kissing and the clothing, this cultural difference was best dealt with when I embraced it as well. Once I opened my mind to the change, I started to appreciate the new way of dining. When I sit down and have a coffee with a friend, even for just five minutes, it is a much more satisfying experience, than simply grabbing a coffee on the way to work like we do in the U.S.

These are just three of the many cultural differences I’ve encountered here in Buenos Aires. Many of them, I’m definitely going to be bringing back with me to the U.S.

Top Three Local Businesses

Buenos Aires is home to many of the traditional international stores and restaurants from around the world. From McDonalds and Burger King to Starbucks and Fridays, you can find many of these institutions present. What makes the city most interesting though, are the distinctly Argentine “tiendas” that you can’t find anywhere else. When asked to name the top three of these small Porteño stores, I have a plethora of places fill my mind. Supreme amongst these three though are the local markets, the Parillas and the restaurants with live music and dancing.

The local markets of Buenos Aires are truly unparalleled by anything in the United States. These events, usually just on Sundays, are tremendous gatherings of local jewelers, artists, photographers, junk-vendors, farmers and musicians. All of them get there early in the morning, and line the tables with colored cloth and fill the sides of the wooden tables with various ropes and designs to draw people in. They then unload their product in neat, filed lines so that passerbys can see the items.

Walking down these narrow pathways, I’ve seen a lot of beautiful artfully designed products. I’ve also seen a lot of crap. I’ve seen delicately, hand crafted maté glasses and I’ve seen weak, mass-produced cups with cracking wooden sides. I’ve touched soft purses of shiny, smooth leather, and I’ve felt hanging bags of rough, fake furs. I’ve seen sparkling necklaces of silver and gold chains, and I’ve seen bulky, ugly bracelets of hideous bland rocks of plastic. It’s a peculiar mix between a wonderful artesian fair of beauty and a tacky, touristy center of junk.

One of the best of these markets is in San Telmo, the oldest, most historic part of the city. In this region of the city, there is a large center full of markets. When I first went there, the warm air was rich with the smell of sweet nuts being cooked in a sugar sauce by local vendors. It was loud, as the sound of acoustic guitar filled my ear drums. I walked toward the source of this music and found a pair of guitarists playing with a hat in front of them and a set of Tango dancers behind them. The male dancer had a thin beard traveling from his chin to the tip of his ears and he wore a fancy suit with pin stripes and a silver pocket square. His suit was finished off by a pair of fly, black shoes and a top hat.

In his hands, he twirled a woman, in a bright red dress, around his back, and she elegantly flipped back over on her feet. As the two glided across the small wooden stage, tourists flashed their cameras and vendors looked on with boredom at the everyday activity going on. As I walked past the hundreds of vendors in the area, I felt myself immersed in the wonderful stone pathways.

The food of these markets were always cheap and tasty, but they don’t compare to another set of local businesses in Buenos Aires: Las Parillas. These restaurants, which translate to steakhouses in English, are home to traditional fine dining of amazing meat. There are hundreds of these parillas in the city, and I plan to get as many of them as I can before I leave.

Last week, I went to one called “Estrebe” in Recoletta with my parents. My parents who were visiting for two weeks, were ready to try the scrumptious Argentine beef I had been telling them about for so long. We walked in, and were greeted by a waiter, dressed in the traditional Argentine outfit, with a pointed black hat. He placed us down at a sturdy, wooden table in the corner where there were tall, bright candles and three thick menus placed in front of each of our shiny, white plates. We didn’t get bread until nearly twenty minutes in, and my dad was already growing unsure of the place that took so long to deliver what Bertuccis could, in just a moment. That all changed when the meals came soon after.

The steaks were so juicy and tender, that it melted in our mouths, and the Malbec wines were amazing, neither too dry nor too sweet. When the meal was over, and we were paying the check, my parents agreed. There is nothing better than a parilla in Argentina. I have grown an addiction to red meat while being here. While in Uruguay this weekend, I visited a restaurant that oddly had no red meet, and I felt lost and confused. Unable to order a juicy lomo, the tender bife de chorizo, or even a hamburger, I ordered some fish. As I chowed it down, I started to miss the Argentine meat that has defined the past couple months that I’ve been here. It was at this moment, that I realized that I’d be in some trouble when I go home to the United States. It suddenly occurred to me that the GW Deli and FoBoGro just aren’t gonna cut it anymore once I get back. At least I will lose some weight though.

The last of the local establishments I’ve grown to love here are those that are home to live music and shows. These are all over the city, but to find the best ones, we must return back to San Telmo. While here, I’ve seen shows of Tango, Flamenco, Rock N’ Roll, and classical acoustic guitar. These shows that usually start at around 10:30 at night are meant to be background noise that you can calmly enjoy while eating food with friends and family.

The Tango show, I saw in an upscale restaurant by the old streets of San Telmo, was amazing. Four men, wearing the same classy suits matched up with four women, wearing long, red dresses and high heels. They were accompanied on stage by two older singers. Behind them were five musicians playing piano, accordian, a bass, and two violins. The music and the dancing was incredible. Then, a man with darker skin and long, black hair entered the stage. The larger man, who already had his eyes passionately closed had in his hands a small, traditional guitar, that looked like a mandolin. He peacefully strummed in violent strokes that filled the room with piercing, soothing tones. After a few minutes, another man entered the stage, holding two long whips and dressed in full Gaucho (cowboy) attire.  The whips had small, hard surfaced rocks on the bottom, and as they banged against the ground, it created a loud beat. He started to twirl the whips to his side, faster and faster, until the stage was suddenly filled with a complicated beat. As he banged them on the ground, along side six other musicians, the crowd cheered and raised their glasses.

Shows are not always this fancy, but all around the city, events like this can be found. There are restaurants with live music in the US, but they are not nearly as common and they are rarely of such traditional music as Tango or Flamenco. Not to mention, the wine is never as good!

Mar del Plata

I felt like I was lying in a pillow-coated, oven paradise. Lying on a small, white towel, I stole from the hostel, I put my head back on the soft, grainy sand, and listened to the sound of the rocking waves. I took in a deep breathe of the clean beach air, and closed my eyes, falling asleep to the sound of seagulls and men yelling “Churros!”

I awoke not too much later with redder skin, and a calmer sense of the world. I was in Mar del Plata, a wonderful beach town to the South of Buenos Aires, and I was starting to get accustomed to the pleasant lifestyle.

I left Buenos Aires at 2:00 a.m. on the Saturday of the long weekend, and didn’t look back. Five hours, three Alfajores (Argentine cookies), and one drunken passenger later, I was at Mar del Plata, and I was excited to get to the beach.

First I had to drop my bag off at the hostel. This temporary home, the Quercus Hostel, was a quaint little building in a quiet, suburban part of the town. Owned by a lovely elderly woman and her son, the hostel was home to countless international students at the nearby university, who hailed from countries like Mexico, Brazil, and Colombia.

Nobody spoke English. Travelling alone, I was forced to communicate entirely in Spanish, and I liked it. Despite being tripped up by the occasional Mexican slang-word, or the rapid paced jabbering of the Colombians, I found my self fully capable of speaking to them, and it felt good to know I could interact with someone from another part of the world.

After a couple cups of coffee, I then jumped on a bus for the beach. Looking around on the packed bus, I realized something. I was surrounded entirely by college students and the elderly. These two groups, almost exclusively dominated the population of Mar del Plata. After thinking about it, the two seemingly different groups, actually have a relatively similar goal in life. Separated from the real stresses of life, the fortunate college student and the retired old people have relaxation and enjoyment as their top priorities. With this in mind, it suddenly made sense why these two populated such a peaceful, wonderful place.

When I got off the bus at the beach, the first thing I noticed was the elephant. Standing tall and large, the elephant was next to a giraffe, three monkeys, two cavemen, and a man on a computer. Together they made up a large ceramic statue in the center of the town. What I didn’t know was that they would later be engulfed in a blazing bonfire. More on that later.

The second thing I noticed was the large casino that stood in the center of the Miami-like boulevard that sat in front of the beautiful ocean. It would be the next day that I would enter that building to play a little roulette. Standing by my table, 100 pesos of chips in hand, I was surrounded by an interesting group of Argentines. To my left was a little old lady, who was aggressively pushing me out of the way so that she could get to the number, that she just knew would win. To my right was a tall man in a suit who was using the “place chips on every single spot technique.”

As for me, I did the same thing every single round. I would place one chip on 13 (my favorite number) and one on 31.  Each time, the ball spun around the circling wheel of fate, the entire group would watch with suspense and hope. “No más,” the man would say, and the bets would stop as the ball came to a tumbling finish. The first spin landed. “29, negro,” he yelled. The majority of the people gave out a frustrated sigh. One mischievous little old lady let out a shout, and collected her winnings, as everyone glared at her angrily.

A few rounds later though, that ball did land on 31, and I collected my first round of winnings. A few more rounds later, it hit 13. Two after that, it hit 13 again. And then 13 a third time. Soon enough, I reached in my pocket, and found 500 pesos of profit. Holding my money in hand, I felt the old ladies staring at me with resentment and anger. I collected my winnings and celebrated with an expensive bottle of wine.

Outside the casino was a large skate park where Argentines from ages 4 to 40 were skating around, doing spins off large ramps and grinding down poles. Beyond that park, was a market that lined the side of the beach. This traditional market had everything you could imagine from maté glasses to shot glasses to scarves. On the beach itself, red, leathery old ladies could be seen relaxing on beach chairs with oversized glasses over their eyes. Children could be seen running through the freezing cold ocean waves as young couples quietly laid together reading or talking. Shouts for “agua” or “Churros” could be heard from all directions as men walked through the beach with food that smelled amazing. Every where you turned, African men would jump in front of you with boxes full of crappy jewelry as shiny as they were fake. 

For three days my life was nothing but sitting on the beach and visiting the casino. On the final night, there was a holiday, dedicated to the memory of the war for the Malvinas Islands, the disputed land by Argentina, currently owned by the British. This island has been the source of a lot of anger from Argentines, who are upset with England’s possession of the oil-strong island close to the Argentine coastline. In Mar del Plata this holiday coincided with another one, which celebrated the end of all that is bad in life. This is where the elephant comes in.

To celebrate this transition away from all that is negative in life, the city gathers in the center square to join together in a unified bonfire. After watching an impressive show of fireworks, a man with a torch lit some firecrackers that headed for the statue of the before mentioned animals. Each of these statues represented something wrong with society, and as each of these symbolic manifestations of evil crumbled, people cheered in joy and sang out the Argentine national anthem. Red smoke sifted through the sky, and the bright fire filled up camera rolls from all directions. I took a picture and felt connected to the country more than I had ever felt before.

As I got onto the bus to go back to Buenos Aires the next day, I felt renewed. Calm and relaxed from my trip, I lied down on the comfy bus seat, and closed my eyes. Thoughts of that burning statue filled my mind, and I felt sure that I too would have all the bad things in my life disappear as well. With thicker pockets, a fuller stomach, and a calmer soul I drifted to sleep. 

Basketball

Disclaimer, this posting is about basketball. If you are not a fan, you might want to skip this excerpt.

When I first got on the plane for Buenos Aires, I expected to find basketball courts on every corner. With players like Manu Ginóbili, Luis Scola and Carlos Delfino and one of the best national teams, I was sure that the country would be full of basketball fever. Much to my surprise though, that was not the case. Landing in Buenos Aires, it took me a month to find a suitable court.

Everywhere I went, I would be met by confused grimaces when I would ask for directions to a basketball court.

“Fútbol” my host mom would ask. “You wants find Fútbol?”

This was a common reaction. Nearly every park, road, dirt patch and school was filled with goals made of flag posts, backpacks, shoes and cones. It seemed like everywhere I’d look, I’d see an Argentina jersey of Messi or Higuaín. This country loves soccer. And yet, basketball was nearly impossible to find in Buenos Aires.

Curious about this, I asked the head of my program where all the ballers were. I asked him why it was that there were so few courts in Buenos Aires. He said that the answer was mostly due to social aspects. 

He said that basketball was entirely based on clubs in Argentina. Unlike the United States, where local courts were the norm, in Argentina, they were mostly indoor arenas, where you had to be on a club to play.

These clubs are most prevalent outside of Buenos Aires, he said. In the smaller neighborhoods where the community can rally around the clubs, basketball becomes a way of life. Meanwhile, the immense size of Buenos Aires makes community commitment to a team more difficult. There are clubs in Buenos Aires, but these clubs are typically less able to mobilize the community around them.

I searched the city, and found only one outdoor court, all the way on the other side of the city in an area called La Boca. This area, which was more than an hour away by bus, was simply too far to travel to consistently. It looked like basketball was going to have to wait until I got back to the United States.

That’s when I became a varsity athlete. Not quite sure what we were signing up for, my friend and I decided to put our names down for my university basketball team. In my eyes there were three options. Option one was that the skill level was similar to U.S. schools, in which case I would find myself a permanent spot on the bench. Option two was that the team would be of varied skill levels, where some would be much better than me, but I’d still be able to play. And three was that it would be a league of soccer players, dabbling in basketball, where I would be the Michael Jordan of the league.

Much to my disappointment, it was not option three and I am not the Argentine MJ. Luckily though, it wasn’t option one either. When I walked in for my first practice, I was met by a terrifying man with a stern face and a thick accent. This mammoth of a man, Trainer Horacio, was our head coach.  When I went to introduce myself, he gave me a grunt, and sent me on my way to warm up.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped on the court was the size of the hoop. It was a full half-foot shorter than a real hoop. Trying to set a good impression, I grabbed the provided ball, and dribbled towards the hoop. I took a jumper, and of course it was over shot, banging against the back of the tiny rim. Looking around, nobody was looking, so I grabbed the ball and tried again. This time I took a layup, and used the small hoop to my advantage. I slammed my hand against the backboard as I laid it in. 

Practices since that layup have gone well. Usually, we do a series of drills, followed by a relaxed scrimmage at the end of practice. This team that meets every Monday and Wednesday for two hours, already seems like a great experience. I recommend it to any future students at UCA. It’s laid-back, it’s good practice for basketball and Spanish, and it’s a great way to meet Argentine students. Not to mention, I get to say that I am a varsity athlete.

Next stop is the GW Basketball team.

Iguazú

“You might get a little wet,” a stout Argentinian tour guide yelled in broken English, over the roar of a boat engine. “These waves get a little crazy!” As the tour boat flew down the canyon filled steam in Iguazú, the water glistened and rose into the faces of the passengers. On either side of the river were two humongous walls of tropical green moss and bright red rocks. On the left side was Brazil. On the right was Argentina.

“Everybody get ready!” the man yelled as the boat neared a corner. Suddenly, as the boat turned the corner, a humongous waterfall jumped into sight. As the boat set course and headed straight for the momentous falls, tourists started yelling in excitement and grabbed their cameras to take some pictures.

“You might wanna cover your cameras,” he yelled. The boat neared closer and closer to the forceful waterfall. 300 feet. 200 feet. 100 feet. 50 feet. Much to our surprise, the boat just continued on towards the waterfall without stopping. As we stopped nearly under the fall, the boat got drenched with water, as pounds of water fell upon our heads. We were immersed in the fall. Hidden under the forceful hand of nature, everyone started laughing in nervous excitement.

We then pulled out of the fall, and looked back at it as it gracefully and beautifully fell in the distance. As we got off of the boat, in the small trail nearby, we were drenched in water and ecstatic from the adrenaline-filled boat ride. After rinsing our clothes and taking a quick breath, we then began our voyage to the top of the waterfall. After about 20 minutes of zig-zagging through the Jurassic park – like trail, we reached the top of the waterfall.

I recall looking down at the wilderness from this high viewpoint. I imagined what it must have been like for the indigenous explorers who first saw this place centuries ago. I could imagine them walking upon this paradise, before it had built in walkways and fat tourists with cameras. I could imagine the way they looked down the waterfall, and saw the abundant power of nature’s streams. Standing above the waterfall, in the same place as they once stood, I could understand why people believed and still do believe in god.

After taking in the beauty, we then took a trolley to the most famous waterfall in Iguazú, called la Garganta del Diablo. This site was astonishing. This waterfall was a large oval canyon where water fell down from every direction. The entire area was full of rising white mist, due to the pressure of the water. Looking at the magnificent hole in the ground, I felt as if humans were very small weak.

The next day, my group ventured out to the sub-tropical jungle. The characteristic of this trip that jumped out at me first was the bright red soil that lined all the paths in this area. As we drove down the path towards the jungle, we passed various Indigenous communities. Outside of the small, impoverished homes were families sitting outside in the warm weather, eating, drinking, and fighting off the heat.

Once we reached the woods, the first stop was a Zip Lining course. As I walked up the wooden stairwell and stood under the metallic line, I felt my hear pounding and my nerves growing. I looked down at the large drop to the ground, and felt my head start to shake. I suddenly felt as if I had forgotten how to stand, and thought I would undoubtedly fall over myself if I tried to walk. But my legs stood strong. Suddenly it was my turn. The guide took my harness and attached it the line.

“Estás listo,” he said.

“Pienso que sí,” I responded.

“OK,” he nodded. And then he pushed me off. A wave of excitement hit me as I started to glide across the wire.

“HOOOOLLLLLLYYYYY SHIIIIIITTTTT,” I yelled as I passed over hundreds of trees. “I AM THE CHAMPION!”

After stopping after the first round of zip lining, I then began the second. On this trip, I took a moment to look out at the wilderness that surrounded me. As far as my eyes could see was the jungle. I felt like I was on the island in “Lost.” It was amazing to be in such a different place than I had ever seen.

When the zip lining was finished, we continued on the trail towards a running river, which lead to a small waterfall in the jungle. It was in this environment, where we did some propelling. Connected to a harness, we slowly climbed down the waterfall, jumping from rock to rock, trying not to slip on the smooth, wet rocks, and avoiding the water as best as we could. Not surprisingly, we all got pretty wet, and the guide holding us up with the rope got a good work out.

We then headed home, tired from a long voyage, and content with the new experience. As I sat down in the van to go home, I closed my eyes and thought back to the great sites I had seen. I put in my headphones, and relaxed as “Welcome to the Jungle” played in my ears.

Being an American in Argentina

            I can speak with my thickest Argentine accent, I can wear tight designer jeans and a futból jersey, and I can keep my maps locked away at home, but no matter what I do, it will always be obvious that I am an American.

            When I first came to Buenos Aires, my friends and I went to a diner. Tired from orientation, our group of 10 was excited to chow down on some food and relax. It was at this point when an Argentine man at the table next to us, turned to our group and with an eager smile and a condescending voice spoke to us: “Americans??” he asked. “Like you the Lakers? Kobe Bryant!! Caliiifornia!”

            We nodded and smiled until he went away. This is just one of the many ways Argentinians treat people from the United States. We’ll call this the “Condescending-you-are-a-stupid-tourist-treatment”. This type of treatment can be initiated by a number of behaviors such as taking pictures of statues in public, holding large maps in the air, asking questions in broken Spanish or by wearing hats, something that I’ve found is very foreign here.

            Once you get past this initial condescension though, a very complicated relation develops between United States visitors and Argentine locals. The way Argentineans perceive Americans is very unique because it is drastically different from the anti-western vibe found in some neighboring countries, but it also is far from a fully supportive nation.

            When I left for Argentina, I figured that it would be all anti-United States. Afterall, the two countries are far from close allies. Argentina President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner is a Socialist leader, who openly supports Hugo Chávez. In response, Obama gave her government the cold shoulder on his trip to Latin America. On this trip, he visited every major country in the region, except for Venezuela and Argentina.

            This anti-American sentiment didn’t dominate the public opinion though. In fact, one of the first things I noticed about Argentina was that America had a surprisingly large influence on the country. When I got to the Buenos Aires airport, I was welcomed by a chubby chauffer, wearing Levys and holding an IPhone. I stepped into his Ford van, and heard some terrible Katy Perry song, followed by an ad for Coca-Cola. As we drove, we passed 2 McDonalds, 2 Burger Kings, one Fridays and an uncountable amount of Starbucks coffees. That night, my host mother flicked through the channels passing over Los Simpsons, Transporter 2 and various American news stations. I quickly realized that in Argentina, people were far from separated from the United States.

            My host mother explained to me in a thick Argentine accent that America’s power was thus a double-edged sword. The typical Argentine was simultaneously aspiring to live the same comfortable lifestyle and hostile towards it at the same time. It was common amongst Argentines to consider people from the United States to be arrogant.

            She thought it was arrogant for example, that the majority of Americans could probably not place the countries of Latin America on a map. She credited this to the fact that most U.S. schools teach history in a Western-centric format (United States and Europe). When I thought back at my experience in school, I realized that this is undoubtedly true. For example, I learned about Cuba, when covering the Bay of Pigs. I learned about Argentina, when focusing on the British war over the Falklands. I learned about Panama, in regards to their heavily American influenced canal. Never was the focus completely separated from the American point of view.

            As an aspiring journalist, I can’t help but think about how the media might be partially to blame as well. It has been well documented that many countries around the world are conceptualized into a certain script that is hard to break. For example, the news will rarely do a story on an African country that doesn’t have to do with poverty or disease. Similarly, the news will rarely cover a story on Latin America that doesn’t have to do with crazed socialist dictators or violent drug cartels. This leads to an ignorance amongst Americans, that many Latin Americans see as arrogance.

            In my first month here though, I’ve never had someone be rude to me. I’ve had Taxi drivers announce how much they wished to travel to the States, I’ve had students in my class tell me how much they loved the NBA and I even met one Bolivian tourist who said that is was our stubborn dedication to freedom that made us so admirable. 

Top Five Characterisitcs of Buenos Aires

When asked to write a blog on the top five aspects of studying abroad in Buenos Aires, I found it very difficult to limit my thoughts to just five things. In the short three weeks that I’ve been here, I’ve seen so many amazing things, and grown attached to this city in a plethora of ways. Of all these reasons, none stand out more than the food, the coffee, the weather, the music and the nightlife.

People that know me would not be surprised to hear that food is on this list. In my life, I’ve always been the eat-first, ask-later type of person, and for this reason, my time in Buenos Aires has been both interesting and filling. To begin, I’ve had some of the greatest, juiciest meat I’ve ever had, while studying abroad here. If you are a vegetarian, maybe you should rethink visiting Buenos Aires because you might be converted by visiting. (Although we have one vegan in the program who hasn’t broke yet.)

While here I’ve eaten chorizos, chicken, beef, pork, lamb and even antelope (see blog 1). Although I’ve found one item I detest (blood sausage), I have found countless of other foods that have been amazing. On Saturday, our group travelled to El Campo, and had an amazing meal of chicken and beef. The tender chewy pieces of beef, that were probably moo-ing not that long before I ate, were the best I’ve ever had in my life. Also worth visiting are the ice cream shops that sell at minimum 30 flavors. The ice cream in even the smallest of shops put US ice cream stores to shame.

Although I could make this blog entirely about food, I will move on to another part of Buenos Aires that I love, although it still focuses on the kitchen. The coffee here is amazing. Although, I am sometimes frustrated with the small portions they give here, the quality is significantly better. Even the Starbucks coffee, which can be found all over the city, is better. To begin, Starbuck’s Dulce de Leche is the greatest cup of coffee I’ve ever had. Dulce de leche is basically caramel, sugar and milk, although it has something else that I can’t place, but enjoy nonetheless. Even the Starbucks food is better here. The crumbling cookies and tiny donuts of the states fall weak in comparison to the various cakes, pies and monstrous pastries on display in Buenos Aires. They even have bagels that are literally the size of a medium-sized child’s face.

Enough about food and drinks though! The third aspect of Buenos Aires that I love has been the weather. When I left Boston, I sported a long sleeve shirt, a blazer, and a jacket to try and protect myself against the frigid, cold air. When I arrived to Buenos Aires though, the first thing I noticed was the heat. As I walked out of the airport, a sign glared the number 30 degrees Celsius. Unaware of what this temperature equaled, I looked up the conversion to Fahrenheit: 85 degrees. This I could get used to. As I stuffed my jackets and blazers back into my suitcase, I got excited for pinnie weather again. For the three weeks that have followed, the temperature has remained at a pleasant temperature of 70 to 80 degrees. During this time, I’ve gone to the beaches of Uruguay, listened to music in the centers of Buenos Aires, and have played futból in the parks of Recoletta (my neighborhood). People in the US: Don’t be too jealous though. Although it is summer now, come July, it will be winter and I will be wearing jackets and studying for exams, while you are out enjoying the heat of summer. I asked my host mom what the winter weather was like here. Mournfully, she told me it fell to between 0 and 5 degrees Celsius. Dreading what I was going to find, I plugged it into the converter: 30 – 40 degrees. I’m from Boston. That’s nothing.

The fourth aspect I love about Buenos Aires, has been the music. It all started on the second night I was here. I sat down for some dinner, which as explained in the first paragraph, was characteristically delicious. As I started to bite in, I noticed the sound of drums, booming over the Spanish chatter on the television. Interested, I headed outside after dinner. As I walked down the street, the banging got louder and louder with each step. All around me, children were running around, shooting shaving cream at each other and laughing. Couples were bursting into dancing, and restaurant owners sold cold Quilmes Cervezas for cheap.

Two blocks later, I found the source of the music. There were approximately 15 people, wearing colorful, purple and gold uniforms banging on the drums in unison. Each doing simple repetitive movements, the drummers did so in an organized way so that together, they made a clean beat. It reminded me of the opening ceremony for the Olympics in Beijing. In both situations, small individual actions contributed to a massive collective product. Standing in front was the leader, whistle in mouth, blowing in beat to signal what the next rhythm would be.

Meanwhile, the group was surrounded by nearly 30 men, women and children, wearing the same uniforms. All of them walked down the street doing the same uniform movements to the beat. In front was one boy holding a huge flag with their colors displayed on it. Despite being way too small to hold a flag of such a large size, he waved it in the air proudly. The dancing of the group was unlike anything I had ever seen. To put it directly, they had swag. For my readers over 30, this basically means they were “cool,” “hip,” “groovy,” and simply awesome. Even better about this whole spectacle, was that it continued every single night for the next week. Each night, a new group, rocking different uniforms and flags, would bang on the drums until 1:00 in the morning while the whole community came to the streets to celebrate. It was fun to watch.

The fifth thing that I have loved about Buenos Aires has been the nightlife. What’s great about this city is that it has something for everyone. There are countless Boliches (clubs) and bars all around the city. There are late-night clubs with loud music and large outdoor dance floors for single party animals looking for a date. There are sports bars, with glaring futból scores on flashing television screens. And there are even funky bars that have bizarre activities such as board games and archery. This city has everything.

All of these characteristics have made my trip great so far. The food has been mouthwatering, the coffee, unmatched, the weather, beautiful, the music, new and enjoyable and the nightlife, exciting. All I can do now is soak it all in and look for more activities to add to the list.