a blip on the radar

A few people have asked me if it's strange being home -- if I'm having trouble adjusting, if I feel different, if I miss Argentina -- and the answer is always No. I'm more aware of certain things around me, and I think eventually I'll miss certain things about Buenos Aires... but for now, it just feels as if I never left.

I like to imagine that I slipped out of bed in the middle of the night, had my Big Adventure, and was back in time for the alarm to go off in the morning. Sometimes that's really how it seems things happened. But then I see the snow on the ground, or look at the calendar, or a crystal-clear memory shifts its way into my line of vision, and assure myself that, yes, I really was gone for six months.

It just feels so natural to be back -- to slide into old routines, to see old friends, to be roaming the streets of Minneapolis once again. I wonder how long it would have taken for my life here to feel foreign to me -- a year, three, ten? Or, has it become so intertwined with who I am and how I've come to define myself that no amount of time or distance could rob it of its crown?

I find myself acutely and intermittently aware of little things all around me. The breadth of the streets. The quietness and slowness of life here. The smell of the bread and condiments coming from SUBWAY. The brightness of womens' white sneakers as they power-walk through the Skyway on their lunch break. The extreme Midwestern-ness of people's clothes. The distant clang of the Light Rail's bell. The attentiveness of waiters. The willingness of driver's to let me cross the street in front of them. Ice in my water. Fresh air in my lungs. Being able to understand every word spoken around me. So few people.

I still find myself rolling my Rs in inappropriate places (yes, I'll have the Grrrrenache-Syrrrrah please), practicing what I'm going to say in my head before I call a restaurant or business to make a reservation or an inquiry, and looking behind me every fifteen seconds when I'm walking down a street in the dark. I wonder how long these habits will hold on as life in the United States saws away at their thin ropes of life.

Never before have I been so appreciative of the little niceties of life. The silkiness of my bed sheets. The ability to do my own laundry (gentle cycle if I so please) and have it smell deliciously fresh. How incredibly friendly the produce guy at Lund's is. Having my own space. Falling asleep with a warm body beside me. Waking up and making coffee with real cream. Having unlimited access to a computer with fast internet. Being able to call home as often as I want.

But, the best part about being back is being here for the things that count -- not missing out on the best moments of life anymore. Being here for engagement announcements and friends who need support; being able to give hugs and touch pregnant bellies; being here to laugh with my parents and hold Andy's hand and simply be a part of things again.

Argentina was great, and I'm so glad I went... but I'm even more glad to be home, back where I belong.

If I was lost, it was only for a little while.

lourdes

Below is a post I first wrote and published back in October. For reasons I'll address at a later date, I removed the post from my blog. However, I feel the topic was an important one to address, so I'm putting it back up. I thought about editing it, but decided to keep it in its original form -- to me, one of the beauties of a blog is that it captures thoughts and feelings in the moment... that it's a raw and fairly unedited form of writing. So the Lourdes post stands as is.

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Lourdes is my host family's maid. I hate using that term, but "cleaning lady" just doesn't cut it.

Lourdes dusts and vacuums six bedrooms, two living rooms, two dining rooms, a study, and a computer room. She cleans four bathrooms and the kitchen, every day. She grocery shops and takes clothes to the dry cleaners. She hand-washes the entire family's laundry (excluding mine) and linens and does all of the ironing. She changes the sheets on six beds every week. She cooks two dinners every night, from scratch - one for me, my host mom and brothers, and one for my host dad - and does the dishes afterward. (We eat first, in the dining room, then later she eats alone, in the kitchen.) And, on top of an entire household to clean and wash and feed, she takes care of my host mom's 95-year-old mother. She dresses and bathes her, takes her to and from the bathroom, keeps her company, and feeds her three meals and an afternoon tea each day. The grandmother has a bell that she rings throughout the day, and Lourdes is almost always the one who answers.

Lourdes is on her feet all day. Even when she's "resting" in her room at night, watching her favorite telenovela, she's ironing or folding laundry or sewing. If something doesn't get done during the day, it just means she has to work even harder the next. She tells me she's tired a lot. Yeah, I guess so.

She's forty years old, but she looks no more than thirty. She's from Paraguay, and quit school when she was fourteen to start working as a maid. She's lived in Buenos Aires for twenty-four years, and has worked for my host family for the last three. She isn't married and has no children, but she does have a boyfriend. She lives with him and her mother in a small apartment in the outskirts of the city.

Lourdes sleeps here five nights a week - Monday through Friday. She has a small room off the laundry room, and her own tiny bathroom. Her week begins early Monday morning - she has to get up around 4:30am to make the two-and-a-half-hour commute in to the city on public buses and subways. She arrives here around 8am and immediately starts working, only stopping to eat and sleep (and she doesn't do much of the latter). She leaves on Saturday afternoon, once she's finished all of her work for the week - usually around 3pm. She wakes up most mornings between 6 and 8am, and goes to sleep anywhere between 1 and 4am. My best estimate is that she works around 90 hours a week. And considering she gets paid $1,100 pesos a month, that means she's making around US$0.80 an hour.

Lourdes is a sweet woman with a kind smile and the spirit of a young girl. She loves to daydream about returning home to Paraguay, sitting on beaches with a drink in her hand, love, and freedom. She likes to cook but hates ironing. She's playful with those who treat her well, and she has a wonderful laugh. When she's in a good mood and my host mom isn't in the house, she sings while she works - the chorus of her favorite song is, "La vida es asi, asi es la vida." ("Life is this, this is how life is.") She told me that she's not very smart - that God created her to work, not to think.

It has been an ethical struggle for me, to be a part of this kind of household. To watch how difficult life is for Lourdes, and to know there's not much I can change. I try to brighten her days and make life easier for her, but it always falls so far from being enough. Peeling potatoes, setting the table, washing dishes, bringing her ice cream, rubbing her back, giving her hugs, making my own bed, sitting with her while she cooks and eats dinner. Feeble attempts at lightening her load, but I like to think it makes a difference, if even a small one.

Then there's the belief that nothing can ever be truly altruistic, which, at least in this case, I can't disagree with. She's been a blessing in my life here. A friend, a confidant, someone to girl-talk with, someone to make me laugh. I love sitting in the kitchen while she prepares dinner, chatting about whatever comes to mind. Sometimes she caresses my hair in a motherly way and calls me her little girl; in a city that has, at times, felt cold and empty, moments like those are small miracles.

Sometimes when I think about her life - how there seems to be no end to her work, how she has so little time to rest, how she barely even sees the sun - it makes me ache. And then to know that all over this city, and all over the world, there are people living in similar, and much worse, conditions... I am filled with gratitude, with realization, with guilt. With a feeling I can't quite name, but that dances in the shadows of heavy questions - Why Lourdes and not me? Why is life so hard for some and so easy for others? How can I complain about something as trivial as wet feet on a rainy day? How can I do anything other than wake up each day with a smile on my face, knowing I lead a blessed life of endless opportunities?

Lourdes' life may never be easy, but she is proof that the human soul perseveres. That even in an unfair world - a world that smells like toilet bowl cleaner and dish soap and dirty laundry - there are dreams and laughter and love and tenderness.

This I am reminded of every day. And every day, as I walk freely through the streets, I turn my face up to the sky and give thanks.

arrived

Home at last, home at last. We made it back safely and have had a whirlwind few days here in Mpls. My to-do list is pages long, and a few things have priority over blogging, so this is just a spoiler for upcoming posts:

- Highlights from Andy's visit and our trek down to Patagonia

- A couple of re-posts

- Learnings about blogging and host family dynamics during my last couple weeks in BsAs

- What it feels like to be home

- Photos

- And much, much more

Stay tuned!!

love is

Love is missing the freckle on someone´s hand. The perfect curve of their ear. The rise and fall of their sleeping chest.

Love is writing the numbers 1 through 157 on a sheet of paper and crossing them off one day at a time.

Love is patience.

Love is encouraging growth. Love is allowing room for change.

Love is what spans oceans, filling dreams with visions of the future.

Love is realizing that no amount of travel could ever begin to fill the space in your heart created by that first kiss.

Love is watching someone step off a plane, and, even thousands of miles from home, feeling you´ve arrived back where you belong.

Love is the province of the brave.

hot toddy

It´s quite strange to put on flip-flops and a summer dress, walk outside into heat and humidity, and see Christmas-themed window displays.

I feel so far away from the holidays... I have no grasp on the fact that this Thursday is Thanksgiving. Or that Christmas is right around the corner.

I´ve never been abroad during the fall before... it throws me off to miss the crunching leaves and crispness of fall, and to not be there as the cold, grayness settles quietly all around.

I know that in a few short weeks I´ll be eating sitting by a twinkling tree, drinking hot toddies, bundled up in sweaters and warm socks, surrounded by the people I love most in this world... but for now it´s all some strange mirage that I feel will never materialize.

It seems my body will forever be attuned to the rhythms of life in the snowy corners of the Northern Hemisphere.

happy trails

Well, I'm back. I can't believe how quickly those ten days went... Alie and I really packed it in -- 50 hours on buses ridden; 45 miles hiked; 15 miles of mountain roads biked; six new kinds of micro-brews tried; lamb ravioli, goat-milk ice cream, and berry-topped Belgian waffles consumed; hundreds of photos taken; lots of fresh air breathed; and countless magnificent views soaked in.

It was an absolutely incredible trip.

We started in San Martin de los Andes, followed La Ruta de los Siete Lagos (The Route of the Seven Lakes) down to Villa Angostura, headed through Villa Traful to El Bolson, and ended up in Bariloche. Each place was more beautiful than the next. I'll give you a rundown of my "trip favorites" from each day, which I think should suffice to paint a nice little picture of the magnificence that is Argentina´s lake district.

Day 1: Cruising out of BsAs in the front seats on the top-level of a double-decker first-class bus... fully reclining seats, a hot dinner of meat and potatoes, wine, champagne, movies, and (singing along to) cheesy music videos from the 90s.

Day 2: A 13-mile hike up the side of a mountain, through Patagonian forest, and along one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen. The first view of it was one of my favorites of the trip... all silvery and ominous, laid out before us. Plus, we got to see wild horses and lots of sheep, and end the day with beer, brick-oven pizza and hot chocolate.

Day 3: Taking a tour of seven beautiful lakes, strung along the Andes, then hiking to an overlook and sitting for an hour, taking in the view -- two turquoise lakes, forest-covered mountains rising from their edges, eventually becoming snow-capped and forming the Chilean-Argentine border. As I looked out into the space before me, it felt as if my soul was soaring.

Day 4: Exploring the tiny, lakeside village of Villa Traful... eating lunch by a cozy, stone fireplace; sitting on a rocky beach, crystal-clear waves lapping against an old wooden dock; and climbing a windy overlook to watch the sun set over the lake. Then later, as I lay in bed, looking out the window at the most incredibly star-studded sky, falling asleep under the foreign skies of the Southern Hemisphere.

Day 5: Following the most beautiful, blue-green river I've ever seen as it snaked between mountains, all the way from Villa Traful to Bariloche, then winding along mountain roads looking out into rocky valleys below all the way to El Bolson... and eating a delicious dinner of lamb ravioli in a wild-mushroom-and-cream sauce, washed down with cold, hippie-brewed beer.

Day 6: Eating a breakfast of Belgian waffles and ice cream, then hiking up a big hill and along a ridge, taking in one of most fantastic views of the trip -- a stunningly blue river winding through a green valley, dumping into a lake surrounded by mountains on all sides.

Day 7: Taking a day off of hiking to eat excessive ice cream and watch The Motorcycle Diaries in our hostel.

Day 8: Hiking on a cold, rainy day through an eerily alien landscape of charred trees along a rocky mountainside, breathing in the smell of wet, green things and hearing nothing but the wind whipping all around us.

Day 9: Biking 15 miles, up and down hills so big I thought my lungs might explode, through a national park that looked like it could very easily house the Loch Ness monster... cruising down hills with Andean Condors swooping above me and mountains rising up endlessly next to me and crystal-clear lakes in front of me, thinking to myself, "I'm in Patagonia. Look at all the beauty around me. Look how lucky I am."

Day 10: Sampling delicious chocolates in Bariloche's Swiss-inspired chocolate shops before boarding the bus back to BsAs, then having an entire bus ride to reflect on all the places we saw, and all of the adventures that lie ahead.

A truly incredible, lasting-memory-making, photo-opportunity-packed, good-for-the-mind-body-and-soul trip.

Lucky am I indeed.


(A note on photos: my dinosaur of a computer is being obnoxious, so unless I can coax it into behaving, you all might have to wait for photos until I return to Mpls in a few weeks...)

out of office

Tomorrow I'm off for Argentina's lake district with my friend Alie. We're going to spend eleven days hiking, kayaking, and exploring some mountain towns and hippie havens. I won't be back until the 21st, so these next couple of weeks are going to be pretty light on posting...

... and once I do return to the blog world, I won't be around for long. When I get back to BsAs I only have five days until Andy arrives, and then will be on another little hiatus. But do not fret!! I plan to continue blogging even after I return home. There are quite a few posts I haven't yet had the chance to write, and I think they'll still be applicable even after I leave Argentina.

And then there are always the post-being-abroad learnings, thoughts, realizations and memories that surface days, weeks, months, and even years! after one returns home. Basically I'm going to be blogging until the end of time.

So, my loyal readers, do not give up on me. Blogging is so much more fun when I know there are actually people out there reading what I'm blabbing about.

Have a great mid-November, and I'll keep you posted (literally).

love ballads and free wifi

I'm currently sitting in a cafe, using free WiFi, drinking strong coffee and eating croissants, watching a soccer match on TV, and listening to so-bad-they're-almost-good 80s and 90s love ballads. I've been here long enough that I've heard "Lady in Red" three times. These are the kind of moments I'm going to miss.

iguazu falls

Nothing prepared me for Iguazu Falls. I had seen photographs, watched videos, heard countless stories about its jaw-dropping scenery. I knew I was in for a treat, but didn't realize that "treat" meant "one of the most incredible experiences of my life." And not just a visual experience either. A full body, all senses on deck, dumbfoundingly amazing experience.

Iguazu Falls is a waterfall system made up of 275 falls along 1.67 miles of the Iguazu River, on the border between Argentina and Brazil. The falls pump between 350,000 and 400,000 gallons of water over their nearly-200-foot-tall edges each second. Do you know what that sounds like? It's deafening. The power of the water vibrates through your entire body.

The first panoramic view I saw of the river valley and its endless wall of water stopped me in my tracks. And it wasn't just the waterfalls. It was the entirety of the valley: coffee- and cream-colored walls of water, roaring and foaming and spraying and falling; the way the mist created from the falls floated above the river, hanging in the treetops of the rainforest and creating rainbows overhead; emerald green vegetation clinging to walls of wet rock; dense rainforest filled with butterflies and iguanas and tucans... the sheer power and immensity and beauty of nature on display. It was absolutely breathtaking.

There is a part of the park where you can walk up right to the bottom of one of the falls and stand at its base. The spray coming off the waterfall was so heavy and thick that it made it difficult to breathe; all I could see and hear and feel was pounding water. I wanted to stand there forever.

Then there was La Garganta del Diablo, or in English, The Devil's Throat. A horseshoe-shaped cavern of gushing water that seems to fall forever because the mist is so thick all you can see is a white wall of water particles that shoot up into the sky like geysers. And, because it's South America, you can stand right on the edge, on a metal platform through which you can see the water rushing beneath you, with only a few waist-high wooden guardrails standing between you and the bottomless depths of the mouth of the devil himself.

The first time we experienced La Garganta del Diablo was during a full-moon tour of the park. To get to the fall you have to walk half a mile over the river on those same see-through metal walkways. To walk over moonlit rushing water, with the silhouette of the jungle in the distance, and hear the crashing water before you can even see clouds of mist rising towards the moon, was indescribable. It was eerie, and magical, and profound. It made me feel so thankful, and so insignificant, and so sad I couldn't share what I was feeling and seeing and breathing with those I love most.

My friend Rachael had to leave on a bus early Monday morning, but I didn't depart until that afternoon, so I decided to head back into the park alone. I arrived early, and was one of the first people let into the park. I headed straight for a place I had seen the day before - a bench on a small platform perched on top of one of the falls, in the shade of a palm tree, with a view of the entire valley. I sat for over an hour, drinking it all in; watching as hundreds of butterflies danced around my head and birds glided in the rainbow-filled air. I saw so few people that at times I believed I had the entire park to myself. Just me and my thoughts, soaring and tumbling with the steady rhythm of falling water.

When it was finally time to go, I had trouble saying goodbye. I felt the same way I feel when packing up and brushing off sand after a long day at the beach - sad in an empty kind of way, knowing something beautiful is over, forever lost except for the small bits and pieces that will remain in my memory. I've learned that it's hard to hold on to the feeling of an experience - that images remain, but the actual feeling almost always seems to fade. Very few moments plant themselves deep enough to keep from being washed away with time.

All I can do is hope that Iguazu Falls knows how to beat the odds.

the history of love

One of my favorite books - quite possibly my favorite of all time - is called The History of Love. The gracious JD introduced me to it last year, and let me borrow one of her copies. I read it, loved it, shelved it (with the intention of returning it). Then, when I was packing for Argentina, I decided to bring books that I'd already read and had become favorites of mine... my reasoning was twofold: 1) I knew I'd like them, so I wouldn't be wasting precious packing space with bad reading material, and 2) they'd be a form of comfort, like a pair of worn sweatpants, but for the mind.

Okay, I feel like I'm backtracking. The point is, the first time I read the book, I loved it, but I didn't feel completely blown away, like I thought I might after hearing JD's reaction to it. But then I spent my first week in Argentina sitting in a corner booth of a little cafe, drinking coffee, watching the city go by on the dark, cold, winter streets, feeling lonely, and re-reading The History of Love. I was enamored, engrossed, amazed. So pulled in that I let my coffee get cold as my hot tears fell onto the worn pages of this beautiful book.

I'm not going to give you a review, or a summary, or a character analysis, because to me this book can't be reduced down to any of those things. To me it is love and loneliness and longing and loss... humor and tenderness, friendship and fragility. It is all that and so much more, expressed in thousands of letters arranged into sentences that echo through your mind long after they've passed your lips.

So, when I decided to do a listening comprehension exercise with the students at San Tarsicio, I couldn't help but choose an excerpt from this book. I chose a section that briefly describes a love story that begins in Poland and ends in America during World War II. I thought it might be a little too deep, a little too difficult to follow, especially for a bunch of pre-teen Argentine kids. It makes me so happy to say that I was sorely mistaken. I read three pages to them, and I have never heard that classroom so quiet. They were on the edges of their seats, looking at me with wide eyes, their lips tight lines of bated breath.

It was one of the most peaceful, beautiful moments I've had here - sitting in front of a classroom of impressionable children, the windows open to the sounds and smells of springtime, my favorite book in my hands, reading out loud. I wanted to share a part of myself with my students before I left, and although talking about Minneapolis did that on some level, reading a book that defines the emotions I felt my first weeks here - a book with pages salty from my tears - seemed so much more meaningful. Most of them will probably forget me, and The History of Love, but my hope is that I, and those three pages, have somehow secured a place among their already-fading childhood memories.

I've been waiting until the end of my stay in Buenos Aires to read The History of Love for a third time. I want to see if it will hold a different meaning for me at the end of my time here than it did at the beginning; I want to touch the same pages that I did nearly five months ago, let the same words dance through my mind. I've thought about going back to that same little cafe, but somehow that doesn't seem right - I haven't been there since those first dark days, and maybe there's a reason for that.

Instead I think I'll sit in the sunshine in the city's rose garden, my favorite place in Buenos Aires, with a smile instead of tears, a heart aching with joy instead of loneliness, and the knowledge that I -- that we -- will look back on these past few months as just one of many chapters in our very own history... a history with an excitingly large number of pages yet to fill.

lyndale to the horizon

Being away has made Minneapolis bigger than life; in my mind it has become a city of dreams. A city of bright lights and quiet streets, of cold beer and corner booths, of crisp air and laughter drifting through it. A city in which I have a friend on every corner and a memory behind every door. A city I miss like a best friend. A city that has forever claimed my heart.

A city that I will fall back into step with, even if we both have changed. A city whose stories will never grow old. A city that feels so full of promise it seems I could take Nicollet out to the ocean and Lyndale to the horizon.

A city that I plan to greet in December by getting down on my belly, spreading my arms wide, and kissing its frozen ground hello; whispering in its frostbit ear that there will never be another, that it is the only one for me.


(Image compliments of Gonzalo, my favorite student at San Tarsicio.)

holding hands

Today I was walking down the street and I passed an old man with a cane, standing against a wall. He murmured something in Spanish, and half a block later I realized he had asked me if I would accompany him down the street. I looked behind me and he was still standing there, speaking quietly, streams of people walking past. I turned around, asked him if needed help, and offered him my arm.

We walked together, ever so slowly; me shortening my steps to match his rhythm of shuffle-shuffle-pause. Small cracks were canyons, slight raises were mountain tops. The old man, his cane, and me.

I learned that he is eighty-four and has lived in Buenos Aires his entire life. He learned that I live nearby. Aside from those small details, we didn't say much; just shuffled along together for a block and a half in the warm afternoon sunlight.

Partway through our walk I told him he could take my hand instead of resting it on my forearm. He placed his worn fingers in mine and held on tight. One rough, spotted hand in one small and soft.

We arrived where he needed to be, and he thanked me as he slid himself against another wall on another corner. I asked if he wanted me to wait with him, but he declined. He continued holding my hand as he thanked me and kissed the side of my face. One pair of wise lips gracing one cheek with much to learn.

As I walked away I could still feel the heat and presence of his hand in mine; the weight of our unspoken words in my palm.

His was the first hand I'd held in four months.

a list of lists

I used to think I had a Type B personality. I was clearly in denial of the fact that I like to be in control, I'm stubborn, I love planning and organizing, and I have notebooks upon notebooks full of lists.

I love lists. The entire process of writing items in neat little rows makes me oddly excited. I've even caught myself clapping my hands and bouncing up and down with the anticipation of starting a new list. It doesn't matter the topic - groceries to buy, areas of the house to clean, thank-you letters to write - even the most mundane tasks can be made pleasurable when they're put into list form. It's weird, I'm well aware... but it's how I operate.

Anyway, being the Type A girl that I am, I feel it necessary to share with all of you the lists that I've made since arriving in Argentina... I'm justifying this perverted task of making a list of lists by believing that it will give you some insight into what I've been doing here and what I've been thinking about.

All of these lists are neatly organized in a pocket-sized notebook that I carry with me everywhere, and that has become my second-most prized possession here (after my camera and before my passport). I open that thing numerous times each day, adding to my lists, crossing things off... sometimes I simply flip through the pages and look at all of my lists and think about them. Wow. Saying that out loud sounds even worse than it does in my head.

Alright, without further delay, a glimpse into the freakishly Type A mind of Lia Middlebrook:

- New vocabulary words
- Things to research
- BsAs yoga studios
- Public transportation options to La Boca
- BsAs street fairs
- Tango studios and shows
- Places that offer photography classes
- Books to read
- Things to do with Nancy and Janine
- Things to buy at the Recoleta street fair
- Gifts to bring home
- Blog ideas
- BsAs hotels, restaurants, cafes and bars
- Patagonia tour companies and tourism websites
- (Numerous) possible trip itineraries
- Food vocabulary
- Airport transfers
- Ice cream companies and flavors
- Activities, wineries and restaurants in Mendoza
- Hotels in Patagonia
- Things to do with Andy in BsAs
- Places to travel
- Things to do and see in BsAs
- Things to think about (wouldn't you like to know)
- BsAs food recommendations
- What to do when I have free time
- Stress reduction tips
- Differences between Mpls and BsAs
- Things I miss
- Movies to watch
- What I want to do when I get back to Mpls
- Concert/live music schedules
- BsAs restaurants
- Books read in BsAs
- Ways to enrich my life
- Addresses
- Spring & Summer 2010 to-dos
- Places to see in my lifetime
- Foods to cook
- Health food places in BsAs
- Things I'm learning about myself
- A "Productivity Plan"
- Restaurants to try
- High and low points (during my time here)
- A yoga sequence
- City walks to do with Mom
- More blog ideas
- Andy's BsAs "Must-sees"
- Things to purchase
- Photos to take
- Argentine jokes
- Uruguay recommendations
- Things I noticed about Uruguay
- Foods I miss (don't act like this surprises you)
- Take-out/delivery phone numbers

I suddenly feel like I'm standing in the middle of a room full of people I know, naked.

a glacier´s patience

Be careful what you wish for.

I was reading through my journal the other day (which dates all the way back to February), and came upon the entry I wrote on my 24th birthday this past April. I found myself laughing out loud as I read my birthday wish, ¨I wish for a year of patience.¨ Man, life sure took that request seriously.

Since the day I arrived, with my cab driver taking two and a half hours to find my house, Argentina has dealt me one lesson after another in patience. Waiting to start teaching. Waiting for the bus, the subway, the train. Waiting for the internet to work. Waiting for dinner to be served. Waiting for Nancy and Janine to come. Waiting for loneliness to pass. Waiting for the server to take my order (the service here is extremely slow). Waiting for my mom to visit. Waiting to make friends. Waiting for spring to come. Waiting to cross the street. Waiting for Andy.

I´ll admit that it hasn´t been easy, but I´ll also admit that I´m glad to be in a city that requires so much patience on a daily basis, and to be at a point in my life that requires me to wait for things I want immediately. It's been really good for me (and my desire to always be in control).

However, as lovely as this little lesson in patience has been, next year I'm definitely wishing for tickets to the World Cup in South Africa.

two 'embers

A full-moon tour of Iguazu Falls. My final days with the kids at San Tarsicio. Hiking in Patagonia, times two. Seeing Andy again. Trekking on a glacier. Saying good-bye to Buenos Aires, a city I love. Returning home to Minneapolis, a city I love even more. Thanksmas. Seeing friends and family after six months away. Two Christmases in Milwaukee. Another Christmas in Austin. Ringing in a new year; a year for which I have no life plan, a year in which anything is possible.

I know embers are technically the smoldering remains of what once was, but I have a feeling that, for me, things are just getting started.

chai

My yoga studio here has the best chai I´ve ever tasted. And I´ve consumed a lot of chai in my day - namely gallons of hot, sweet, spicy deliciousness in Kenya - and I think this might be slightly better. That, or it´s just been so long since I tasted that sweet Kenyan nectar that this is my new favorite. Either way, I make sure to arrive early to every class to have a little cup of chai, and I linger after class to have another little cup... or three. (And also to practice my Spanish, but who am I kidding, it´s mostly for the chai).

Anyway, I am so clearly obsessed with the chai that some of my new yogi friends who work at the studio gave me the recipe for it. Huzzah! Now when I return to the frigid arctic that is Minnesota in January, I´ll be able to sip on this and remember all the good times I had in my warm little yoga studio in Buenos Aires.

I´ve provided the recipe below, in my best attempt at translating it from Portuguese (don´t ask). So if any of you are craving really delicious chai, you should try this and let me know how it goes. Maybe I´ll get a bunch of you addicted so when I get back we can sit around in circles sipping chai and practicing our headstands. That would be both fantastic and slightly creepy.

Chai Recipe*:

Ingredients:

1/2 liter of water

1/2 liter of milk
5 sticks (branches?) of cardamom (grind the entire stick/branch - seeds, stem and all - with a mortar and pestle (or something of the sorts) and add it all into the chai)
2 cinnamon sticks (you can break these apart a little bit)
6 heaping spoons of sugar (you can add more or less, depending on how sweet you like your chai)
3 heaping spoons of black tea (or a bunch of tea bags)

1/2 cup grated ginger (from actual ginger root...)

Instructions:
Bring the water to a boil and add the ginger, cardamom and cinnamon. Add the milk and bring to a boil again. Remove from heat, add the tea and let it sit for three minutes. (Do not boil the chai once the tea has been added.) Use a strainer to remove the ginger, cardamom, cinnamon and tea from the chai. Stir in the sugar. Enjoy.

*Note of warning: Remember that I translated this recipe from Portuguese. I do not speak Portuguese. Also, please keep in mind that I´ve never attempted to make this chai myself. Godspeed.

day to day

I feel like I never really blogged about what I do here on a daily basis... what a "typical" day in Buenos Aires is like for me. Maybe that's because I haven't really had a 9-5, Monday-Friday routine like I did back at home... every day is a little different, depending on how I choose to spend my free time. However, I'll try to give you a sense of how I spend my days. Thrilling, I know. Hold on to the seat of your pants.

On days that I teach, I either wake up around 10:30 and go for a run, or sleep until 12:30. (This makes me sound extremely lazy, I know, but keep in mind that my average bedtime is around 2am.) I shower, eat a boring breakfast of All-Bran with banana and milk (don't judge - I need my fiber), and check my email and Facebook (I've become a Facebook junkie during my time here... again, don't judge).

Then I walk thirty minutes to school, varying my route occasionally, but I usually walk down a pretty little sidestreet, daydreaming. I arrive at 2, teach/observe/hang out with the kids until 4:15, then walk home. At this point my "free time" commences, since I have about five hours from the time I arrive home until we eat dinner.

I fill that time by eating lunch (usually some form of take-out from a cafe or veggie restaurant), reading, blogging, writing in my journal, hanging out with Ia and his friends, chatting with Lourdes in the kitchen, and, if I haven't roused myself at the ungodly hour of 10:30 to run that day, going to yoga.

Then around 10:30 I eat dinner with the family, usually with the TV blaring behind me (this family loves their dinner-time political talk shows). After dinner I occasionally watch some TV of my own (usually bad American television or some romantic comedy I've already seen), but usually I retreat to my room to catch up on emailing, listen to music, do some more writing and reading, and talk to Andy.

Things that disrupt this evening routine (approximately twice a week) include: dinner with a friend, a cultural event (i.e. live folk music, a tango show, a movie), and/or ordering-in ice cream.

Weekends (Friday through Sunday) are when things really get crazy, without any sort of "schedule" dictating how I spend my days. I sleep in (aka I don't wake up with an alarm), go to yoga or for a long run, then usually choose a "fun" afternoon activity, like going to a street fair, meeting friends for a late lunch, hanging out in a park, shopping, exploring a new part of the city, or going to see a movie. My weekends are usually low-key, which is just how I like them.

And that's about it (excluding travels, visitors, and the first month I was here, when I spent most days walking around the city, seeing the sights). The thing about living in a place for an extended period of time is that not every day is a big sight-seeing adventure... that would get old pretty fast. Five months is enough time to form habits and routines, and to not feel like I always need to be doing something fabulous or new or super exciting. I've liked having normalcy, and getting to know my neighborhood, and being able to choose how I spend my time.

It's been a great experience, becoming part of a huge city... blending in to the crowds on the sidewalks and becoming lost in crowded subway cars... just another anonymous face on someone's commute home.

the argentimes

So the teaching thing has been great, but I was itching for something a little more challenging... I needed a little diversity; something to jump-start my brain. My mom had been encouraging me to email The Argentimes, an English newspaper in Buenos Aires, and I finally did. I offered up my public relations skills (free of charge), and the editor/founder took the bait.

I met with her last week to discuss how I could be put to use - we decided that I'll be in charge of fleshing out the "Inside Argentina" section of their website, which will serve as an all-inclusive guide to the city (restaurants, travel services, language schools, volunteer opportunities, cultural events, etc.), targeting expats and tourists. I'll be contacting local businesses and meeting with people all over the city, trying to convince as many of them as possible that they want to be included in the guide. Since I'm only going to be around for another month or so, my job is to get as much done as I can in the next four weeks.

I'm excited to have a new project, and am looking forward to seeing how much ground I can cover before I'm Patagonia-bound. First step, a pitch letter... apparently some things never change.

Wish me luck!

(Also - I'll still be teaching two days a week... I couldn't leave the kids quite yet.)

uruguay's got it going on

I can clearly remember sitting in my high school Spanish class, memorizing the names of the countries in South America, thinking that "Uruguay" and "Paraguay" sounded so strange and foreign. I wondered if anyone actually traveled to these little places squeezed between Argentina and Brazil... and I never imagined that some day I'd be setting off for a long weekend in either of the 'Guays. But, here I am, eight years later, shaking Uruguayan sand out of the pockets of my clothes as I unpack. And let me tell you... it may be small, and it may have a funny name, but Uruguay's got it going on.

Montevideo is the country's capital, and it sits across the wide, brown Rio de la Plata from Buenos Aires. Easily accessible by ferry, which is just how Alie and I arrived on Thursday morning. We spent the day walking around the city (we must have trekked at least eight miles that day), enjoying the sunshine and taking it all in.

Montevideo has a modern part of the city and a Ciudad Vieja (old city). The new part felt a lot like Buenos Aires, only smaller and more manageable, and the old part felt like some odd combination of a Mediterranean fishing village and the run-down areas of Baltimore. It had a mellow vibe, and everyone in the streets seemed just a little happier, and a little nicer, than their friends on the other side of the river. Our favorite part was the city's boardwalk, which wound along the coast for miles, starting by the shipping docks, passing residential and business areas, and skirting past city beaches and parks. It was beautiful, and the breeze off the water was a welcome break from Buenos Aires' narrow, city-bus-clogged streets.

We ate street food for lunch - I had a fantastic chorizo sandwich served in a plastic baggie - and ice cream from a stand in a park for dessert. Then to reward ourselves after our long walk, we stopped in at a gas station by a beach and bought 40s of Corona... the gas station attendant uncapped our bottles, and we helped ourselves to some limes in a bowl in the fridge that were provided specifically for beer drinkers like us. We sat outside as the sun went down, sipping our cold drinks, looking out over the water, and exclaiming how lucky we were. Lucky indeed.

On Friday morning we took off for Punta del Este - a ritzy beachtown on a peninsula in the Atlantic, a two-hour bus ride from Montevideo. I was a little wary of the "ritzy" part of the equation, but since it was off-season, things were quiet and low-key. In other words, perfect. The beaches were beautiful, the town was pretty, and the room in our hostel had a view of the ocean. We spent the next two days lying on the beach, enjoying sunshine and salty air, eating fresh fish and salads and ice cream, reading, and taking long walks along the boardwalk.

We even got lucky our last night in town and found ourselves sitting in the middle of a bar/restaurant that was broadcasting a World Cup Qualifier game (Uruguay versus Ecuador) on a big-screen TV. Not a single person had their chair turned with their back to the game, so we followed suit. We ordered beer, I ordered a Chivito Canadiense (a traditional Uruguayan sandwich consisting of steak, ham, bacon, egg, lettuce, tomato, olives, cheese and mayonnaise on french bread - yes, it's as wonderful/disgusting as it sounds) and french fries, and we spent the next hour and a half riding the emotions of the excited, then distraught, then ecstatic Uruguayan fans. Uruguay ended up winning on a penalty kick in the last play of the game, and that place was electric. It was one of those moments that reminds me why I travel - to be there when little instances of unfiltered culture happen... to know they occur every day all around the world in thousands of forms, and I got to be there for one of them.

Another little moment happened later that night, but was much less pleasant. We decided to save some money by staying in hostels, and in dorm rooms to boot. We signed up for an all-girls' dorm, which we had on night one, but on night two, boys appeared. Yikes. No big deal though, until they came in at 7am, loud and drunk. The girl in the bunk above me was snoring very loudly, and one of the boys decided to try and get her to stop by poking her. I opened my eyes to find a mostly-naked man in skin-tight white undies standing on his tiptoes by my bed, his package nicely on display and less than eighteen inches from my face. Uff-dah. I am definitely getting too old for the whole Hostel Gig.

But despite the Whitie Tightie Incident, it was a great trip. Relaxing, beautiful, and a good way to recharge for the last leg of my time in Buenos Aires. Thanks, Uruguay, for a great weekend. I'm sorry I ever made fun of your name.

Above: Montevideo's Boardwalk; A Kiss; Three Trees; Cold Coronas; Punta del Este; Punta's Harbor; Punta's Coast; A Hand in the Sand; Chivito Canadiense.

For the complete collection from Montevideo, click here. Punta del Este photos yet to come...

let the travels begin

Considering the fact that I'm in a foreign country with a flexible schedule and a lot of free time, I haven't done much traveling. In the past sixteen weeks I've spent a total of five days outside of the city - three in Mendoza, one in Colonia, Uruguay, and one in a town on the river delta an hour train ride away. Much different from my semester in Spain, when I traveled to eight countries in four months. But this travel void is about to be filled.

In the next eight weeks I'll be taking four trips - a long weekend to Montevideo and Punta del Este, Uruguay, with my friend Alie; a quick jaunt up to Iguazu Falls with my friend Rachael; an eight-to-ten-day trip to Bariloche and the Lakes District in Northern Patagonia, travel companion being sought out; and a week in Southern Patagonia, taking in Glaciers National Park with Andy.

It's going to be a great couple months, and I'm really looking forward to getting out of the city and exploring what the rest of the country has to offer. This means you'll have to deal with fewer posts, but I promise to make it up to you with lots of good stories and photographs.

First up, Uruguay. I depart tomorrow morning on an 8am ferry, so I'll see you all next week.

Let the travels begin.

the grass is always greener

Every night I have a delicious, hot dinner served to me without having to lift a finger. I miss cooking, and eating what I want, when I want.

I don't have to clean my own bathroom. I look forward to not having to stand on the edges of the tub to get the water pressure necessary to thoroughly clean my hair.

Freshly washed sheets magically appear on my bed every Tuesday. I can't wait to bury myself in our expensive cotton sheets under our fluffy down comforter.

I have my laundry done at a drop-off laundry service for US$4 a load. I'm excited to get back to gentle cycles and dryer sheets.

A doorman usually calls the elevator for me and chats with me while I wait for it. It will be so nice to wait for the old, slow elevator in our building without being hit on.

I go to a wonderful yoga class led by a fantastic instructor in a beautiful old building. I've been longing for a heated Friday-night Vinyasa class that leaves my arms and legs wobbly in the most satisfying of ways.

It's been so great to see how connected Andy and I have remained despite the distance. I can't wait for the day that we can communicate through a hug.

I have so much time to read. I miss having access to endless shelves of books.

I love being able to practice my Spanish every day. It will be a little relieving to be back in a place where I'm fluent in the official language.

The list of things I love about Buenos Aires grows with each day that passes. I look forward to the day when I can remember it all with fondness.


Maybe it's less about the grass being greener and more about learning to appreciate what I'm blessed with at any given point in my life.

holy october

Where is the time going? Yesterday I hit the eight-weeks-until-Andy-arrives mark, and got really excited and a little panicked at the same time... Clearly I can't wait to see him again, but I have a lot I want to do in the next eight weeks. No more messing around. I have a mere 54 days to: travel to Uruguay for a four-day weekend; complete eight more hours of private tutoring; take a long weekend to see Iguazu Falls; eat at at least fifteen new restaurants; see a futbol match or two; check off a few more museums; explore BA's Chinatown; spend a week or so tromping around Bariloche and the Lakes District; teach those ten-year-olds a couple more lessons; try at least five new flavors of ice cream; volunteer; put my nose to the Spanish-learning grindstone; and, most importantly, slow down and appreciate the daily joys of my life here in Buenos Aires.

I can't believe that at one point I actually thought to myself, "Wake me up... when September ends..."

alice the great

I realized the other day that I never told all of you about Alice the Brit. Alice arrived from England in mid-August and was placed in my homestay for four weeks. She came through the same program I'm here with and slept in the bedroom across the hall. She was here on summer break before her third year at Oxford, where she's studying Spanish and French language and literature.

She was great. Outgoing, fun, easy to be around. Plus, she used phrases like "I reckon" and "Bloody hell" and "I'm going to nip to the loo to take a wee." For a month I had a live-in partner-in-crime to conquer the city with. We explored new neighborhoods, tried new restaurants, saw a tango show, took a day-trip to the nearby river delta, and spent nights watching bad movies and ordering in ice cream. It was a good month, and I was sad to see her go.

But, she did leave behind one of the best gifts I've received in quite some time - a relationship with my host brother Ia. For some reason, before I had Alice in the house, I was kind of shy and reserved around my host brothers. Completely unlike me? Yep. True story? Sadly. Whenever Ia (the younger of my two host brothers) would have friends over, I'd say hi, chat for a few minutes, then slip away. I didn't want to intrude... which, in retrospect, was one of the most unfounded assumptions I've ever made. But (thankfully) all that changed with Alice.

She arrived, both guns blazing. She wasn't shy at all, and she plopped herself down on the couch and started jabbering away, asking the boys all sorts of personal questions and demanding answers. Her Spanish was really, really good - she made forming friendships with Ia and his friends seem so simple. I still can't wrap my head around what I was doing before she arrived...

...Not being myself, that's for sure. And not enjoying the company of some really great guys. Ia and crew are fantastic. His three best friends are named Rulo, Mono and Kiko - literally, Curly, Monkey and some odd nickname. They're funny, nice, interesting, and very patient with my Spanish. I really enjoy spending time with them, and do so quite a bit. A couple afternoons a week we sit around the house listening to music while they smoke cigarettes and discuss politics. They invite me to parks to drink mate, to their Friday night asados (barbeques) and to their run-down-bachelor-pad parties. We even have plans to go hear live jazz at a couple of their favorite venues. I suppose you could say that we've entered the full-fledged-friendship stage of our relationship.

I like to think that if Alice wouldn't have lived here I eventually would have come out of my shell on my own and befriended this ragtag group of twenty-something Argentine guys... but having her and her this-is-how-it's-going-down attitude certainly sped that process along.

I wonder what they thought of me before... I was probably "That Quiet Girl who spends a lot of time in her bedroom." A far shot from the truth, and a one-eighty from the girl they saw drinking Fernet and Coke and dancing to reggaeton at their party last weekend.

The times, they are a changin'.

Above: Alice and me, followed by Ia (left) and Rulo (right)

packed with nutrients

White rice with butter, fried eggs and boiled hot dogs. Argentina's version of "I don't feel like cooking tonight."

crave

Those of you who know me know that I love food. A lot. Far more than the average person. I´m not ashamed of it - I´m quite pleased, actually, that I was created to be such a food-loving machine. Food brings a lot of happiness into my life; but that also means that when I´m far away from my favorite foods my life becomes a little less bright. So today I am going to pay tribute to all of the foods I have been dreaming about and missing dearly...

Pancakes with real maple syrup. Cheeseburgers from the 112 Eatery and The Bulldog. Punch Pizza. Surly Furious.

Brunch-related carbohydrates: waffles, french toast, hashbrowns, bagels, english muffins, and donuts from the Old Fashioned Donut Shoppe.

Normal ketchup.

Panang curry, spring rolls, peanut sauce, thai iced tea. Kihn Do's basil-with-beef.

Junk food: frozen pizza, Velveeta Shells & Cheese, tater tots, Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, licorice.

Sushi.

My mom's famous sandwiches.

Burrito bowls with heaps of guacamole. Cheese tamales.

Cream of Wheat with raisins, brown sugar and whole cream. (This one surprised me too.)

Tapioca pudding.

Andy's scrambled eggs. Bacon.

Peanut butter. Kashi. Old Home Vanilla Yogurt. Cottage cheese. Soy milk. Hummus.

Hope Creamery butter.

Mmmmm... only 72 days until I embark upon my American Food Marathon... who's coming with??

internal to external

I've been feeling pretty selfish lately. It all began a few weeks ago when my brother Jeb sent me an email and asked if I was doing any volunteer service in Buenos Aires, aside from teaching English. Staring at that question made my face burn a little bit; I was embarassed with myself. "No, I haven't," I thought. "Not one bit." These past few months have been all about Me, Me, Me.

I want to quit my job and move to Argentina. I want to live in a big, beautiful city. I want to shop for a new pair of pants. I want to try every restaurant in this book. I want people to come visit. I feel lonely. I feel happy. I don't want to have a real job while I'm here, because I want time to read and write and practice my Spanish and enjoy my life. I need support. I need you to give me up for five months. I want, I need, I, I, I.

I was surprised by myself, by my lack of external focus. I've always been introspective - something that requires a lot of internal focus - but I've also tried to see the big picture, think about others, find ways to drive that internal focus outward. So why, then, was I not doing that here? How could I have let three whole months pass without questioning my actions (or lack thereof)? I didn't really have a good answer...

I think the first month and a half I was so focused on pulling myself out of loneliness and homesickness and just trying to keep my head above water that my brain didn't have the energy to think outside of those emotions. Then I finally started teaching, and shed my loneliness, and really started liking the city... so my attention was being directed towards simply enjoying the happiness I was feeling and my newly formed, positive, relationship with the city and the people in it. But now, here I am, with sadness behind me, a healthy base of happiness under me, and two months ahead of me.

Well, Lia, it looks like you're out of excuses. So what do you plan to do about it??

I'm going to email the volunteer coordinator of my program and ask what my options are. (Actually, scratch that, I already did.) And if that doesn't work, I'll track down every volunteer organization in the city and harass them until they give me something to do. But, most importantly, I'm going to make the mental switch from Internal to External.

And you know, I think maybe all that internal focus was necessary. (And even if it wasn't, I'm going to believe it anyway.) Maybe in order to truly help others, to send positive energy into the world, everything inside needs to be all lined up in an orderly manner first. Like truly being able to love others; first you need to truly love yourself. Plus, I'm a firm believer in internal work; in letting your soul learn the lessons it needs to in this lifetime... internal focus doesn't always go hand-in-hand with selfishness.

I'm also certain that I've learned a lot in the past few months - even if every lesson hasn't yet materialized - and that all that internal focus has changed me for the better. Maybe it was fate's plan all along, and I was just making my way through the course, finding my way to where I am right now... standing in front of a big question mark that slightly resembles my brother's face, being asked how I'm going to give back to this amazing city that has taught me so much.

I have to admit that when I first read my brother's email I felt a bit of annoyance mixed with that embarassment. It ruffled my feathers, having to think outside of my little world. Having someone challenge me to question myself. But I recognized that the annoyance wasn't directed at Jeb - he asked the question in a kind, honest, thoughtful way - it was directed at myself for not asking it first. I'm better than that; I know it, and he knows it.

Which is why I feel so lucky to have him, and everyone else who questions me, in my life. Even though I, Miss Don't-Tell-Me-What-To-Do, usually react to such inquiries in a stubborn manner, that immediate reaction always fades into the knowledge that The Questioner is right to question me.

So thank you, Jeb, for supporting and encouraging me, but also for challenging me, if only because you believe in my ability to become something great.

like mother, like daughter

As predicted, my mom and I had the best week together. Seven days and six nights of walking, walking, walking; lots of laughter; oogling over boots and dresses and jewelry and scarves and anything shiny/sparkly/pretty; snapping endless photographs; and drinking glass after glass of wine during our nightly two-to-three-hour dinners. I couldn't have asked for more.

I won't bore you with the play-by-play of each day (though you better believe my mom and I both have a fully detailed report in our individual journals), but I will give you a random selection of The Best Ofs.

Seeing my mom in the airport, sitting patiently by her baggage cart, waiting for me to realize I'd been waiting in the wrong terminal for an hour. Having her arrive, safely, and pull me into a motherly embrace.

Lunch on the first day, at one of my favorite spots. We ordered our first of many half-liter jugs of wine and let our mouths motor away (both talking and eating).

Taking my mom to yoga and listening as she squealed with laughter behind me when the instructor made us hold really difficult poses for longer than she could handle.

Waking up to her padding into my room to lie down next to me and rub my arms and back the same way she's done since I can remember.

Spending hours going from booth to booth at the outdoor markets, becoming giddy with all of our fantastic bargain purchases, our arms growing heavy with overstuffed plastic bags.

Walking in silence through the bustling city, watching her take it all in.

Sitting in warm sunshine at outdoor cafes, lingering over coffee and croissants, people-watching.

Getting to ask my mom questions about her life - hearing about roadtrips and old friends, her youth, her dreams. Listening as she recounted my dad's proposal to her on a mountain in Colorado. Watching her become lost in old memories, wearing the same look she gets when she looks out at the ocean.

Ordering two half-orders of meat, then realizing that a half-order in Argentina is equivalent to a double-order in America, and giggling over the little table at the absurd amount of food before us.

Walking arm-in-arm through the streets, window-shopping.

Eating too much ice cream out of styrofoam containers; two spoons, one tub.

Renting bikes in the ecological reserve... tooling around on rickety old frames down gravel paths; taking in the fresh air and lack of city-ness; hearing the marsh come alive with spring peepers; seeing the long shadows of the city's skyscapers stretch out over the pampas grass; racing down a crowded boardwalk to get our bikes back before closing.

Drinking really strong margaritas and laughing at their powerful effect.

Eating dinner with my host family, and translating between my real mom and my "adopted parents" for two-and-a-half hours... having my mom be able to experience the family dynamics and daily routines that have become my life here.

Just being able to show her the little things - have her meet people who have become so important in my life; taking her on neighborhood tours; pointing out random shops and places that hold memories for me; and, of course, eating lots of good food.

I felt so fortunate the entire week. To be here, in this beautiful city. To have my mom all to myself for an entire week. To have full bellies and money to shop and a warm place to stay. To have a relationship like I do with my mom, so full of love and support. To learn new things about her. To see her in new ways. To realize, once again, how every day I become a little more like her.

I broke down when she left, crying in her lap and then later in the street, trying to explain to her driver through snot and tears that he should drive carefully or she'd get sick and puke in his car. It wasn't even sure why I was crying... I think I was just so sad to see the week end, and it was mixed together with all of these emotions I was having trouble putting my finger on - gratefulness for all that I am blessed with; a deep love for my mom; a sudden panic that I hadn't asked her enough questions about what she was like when she was young; a realization at how quickly the sweetest days of life go by. The world suddenly seemed so beautiful and melancholy all at once.

I ended up tucking those melancholy feelings away, and as I recounted the week in my mind, I couldn't help but smile. I know this will be a week we'll remember forever; one of those trips that grows more monumental with time. And I also know that I am one lucky girl, to have my mother here in the world... to love, support, hug, and encourage me... to listen to my dreams and questions and give me advice... to tell me that I'm a beautiful young woman and she's proud of me.

I'm proud of her too.

a fantastic surprise

My mom sent me an email last Thursday, wondering if it would be too much trouble if she came to visit in a few days. ¨I´m thinking next Wednesday or Thursday,¨ she said. I couldn´t help but laugh out loud - partly because her request was so spontaneous, but mostly because a smile just wasn´t sufficient to express how happy her proposal made me.

We´d been talking about her coming, discussing different dates, trying to work around her crazy schedule... and nothing was working. But then this wave of spontaneity hit her when she was deciding how to celebrate her birthday (on the 16th), and the thought of spending yet another birthday in Austin (as lovely as the B&J is) was just too much to bear. ¨I want to celebrate with you, in Argentina! So I´m coming.¨ Quintessential Kay.

So she arrives Thursday morning, and will be here through the following Wednesday night. She´s going to stay in my homestay with me, on a mattress on the floor of my bedroom. I can already picture us stifling giggles into our pillows into the wee hours of the night.

We´re not going to travel outside of the city - there´s too much to see here. We´re just going to walk, eat, and laugh; do some sightseeing and shopping; and walk and eat and laugh some more. I can´t wait to show her my life here, and to be there as she experiences her first taste of South America.

We´re going to have an absolute blast.

and life goes on

It´s not as if I expected life at home to be put on pause while I was gone... but I had no idea so many big things would happen in the lives of my friends and family in my absence. People are getting married, engaged and impregnated left and right. Friends are buying homes, running their first marathons, moving to China and Europe, taking new jobs, starting grad school, starting families. My sister left for college, my brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law are planning their wedding. My parents became empty-nesters, my mom is going back to school.

And daily life continues as well. Friends get together for drinks and dinner, run into each other on the street, have birthday parties, laugh. My dad does yardwork and watches birds, my mom paints and runs and fills me in on the inane details of life that I love so much. Seasons change and life goes on, and I get to hear about it from afar.

I look forward to my homecoming; to being a part of all of these simple, beautiful things once again. To seeing engagement rings and wedding bands, baby bumps and newborns, familiar faces with new stories to tell. To sitting around tables at my favorite restaurants, enveloped in the deeply satisfying warmth of friendship.

Thousands of long miles will make you appreciate millions of little things.

¿minnesotan or brazilian?

In the past two weeks, I´ve been asked if I was from Brazil on four separate occasions. This both baffles and pleases me. When I look in the mirror I definitely do not see a South American, let alone some bronzed Brazilian... but I´ll take it. Their line of reasoning? Apparently I speak Argentine Spanish with a Brazilian accent. Maybe those drawn-out Minnesotan vowels are finally paying off.

As flattering as this line of questioning is, and as lovely as it would be to be able to introduce myself as a sensual, exotic Brazilian (and not some Downhome Girl from Minnesota), I´m really, really glad to be from a state in which I don´t have to don a G-string bikini year-round. Or ever, for that matter.

You know what? I take that back. I like being a Downhome Girl. And I love Minnesota. I wouldn´t change my place for the world... but I´m still thankful for full-coverage bathing suits.

laundromat love

Today Lourdes, the hired help in my homestay, reported to me that the guy at the laundromat where I take my clothes is ¨very in love with me.¨ When she went this morning to pick up some dry-cleaning he asked her what my name was (and of course she told him). He told her that he thinks I´m very beautiful, and asked her to tell me hello for him. He also said that he´s looking forward to the next time I have dirty laundry that needs to be washed. (I´m hoping that´s not a double entendre.) Apparently he´s engaged.

I´m trying to ignore the fact that he sees my underwear on a bi-weekly basis.

making friends

Well, I did it. I made friends. And not just other lost Americans wandering the streets of Buenos Aires (though I do have a few of those as well), but real, live Argentines. It´s amazing how quickly time passes, and how un-homesick you can be, when your days are spent enjoying the company of others, building a life in a new city, feeling like you belong.

The other weekend I went out to Sunday brunch with a group of friends from my yoga studio. We spent hours lingering over delicious food at one of my favorite cafes, strolled through the streets afterwards with our arms hung loosely around each other, grabbed coffee and dessert, window-shopped our way past trendy little boutiques.

The past few Sunday afternoons I´ve gone with my host brother, Ia, and his friends to sit in parks, drink mate, listen to live music, people-watch, kick a soccer ball around, and watch the sun set over the city.

Last week I was invited to Friday-afternoon tea with the female teachers I work with. We met in one of their dining rooms around a huge table filled with pastries and snacks, talked about men and relationships, complained about the students at the school, and drank so much coffee I had the Caffeine Shakes.

This past Saturday my yoga friends invited me to watch a fútbol match at one of their houses. I sat between an Argentine and a Brazilian while the team of the latter beat that of the former, learning a lot of new Spanish curse words, drinking good wine, and eating delicious pizza afterwards at a local spot that had a line out the door when we left at 1am.

Yesterday I met a couple of friends for lunch. The other day a different friend and I grabbed a late breakfast. This weekend I have a barbeque and a farewell party to attend. Next Thursday I have dinner plans.

I have a newfound happiness and contentment with my life here, and I owe a lot of that to all of the fantastic people I´ve met... they´ve welcomed me into their lives, they put up with my slow Spanish and constant vocabulary questions, and they give me a safe haven in this big, noisy, chaotic city.

It feels pretty darn good.

my argentine solstice

Today is my Argentine Solstice - the mid-point* of my time here. Seventy-eight days behind me, seventy-eight days ahead of me. It´s hard to believe two and a half months have already passed, and it´s exciting to think I still have two and a half more to enjoy. I can´t wait to see what kind of adventures, stories and learnings this downhill slide back to Minnesota brings.

*I have defined my time here as the five months of my ¨structured¨ program. However, I´ll be in South America for an additional two weeks once it ends, traveling with Andy... and I believe that falls under the Vacation Category, not the Lia Learning Lots About Herself Category. Plus, I´d be fooling both you and myself if I tried to deny the fact that The Day Andy Arrives was the unanimous winner when choosing my Countdown Date.

american meatheads

I spend quite a bit of time in internet cafés (known as locotorios) here, catching up on emails and blogging and skyping and doing similar internet-related activities. Things usually run pretty smoothly, with the occasional hiccup of a lost connection, a crappy headset or a keyboard that you have to slam away on to get the keys to work. Most days I take these little issues in stride, but every once and a while I get fed up.

Today was one of those days - Andy and I had a date on Skype (oh so romantic), and I was sitting at my favorite locotorio (still am, actually), looking forward to chatting ¨face-to-face.¨ Andy signed in, and although we could see each other and he could hear me, I couldn´t hear him. This has happened to us before... and as much as I´d love to blame South American computers for this problem, we´ve discovered that it´s actually his faithful Mac that´s messing things up. Well, I didn´t care which country´s fault it was, today was not a day I felt like tolerating yet another annoyance on the long list of annoyances. So I started swearing under my breath (just a little), and called the computer a few choice names. (Not something I´m necessarily proud of, but it helps calm me down when I´m really frustrated.)

A few minutes went by, and Andy and I were still trying to trouble-shoot, and all of a sudden I look up and there´s a guy standing next to me, asking me something. I took off my headset to hear what he was saying. ¨Did you just call my girlfriend a whore?!¨ I almost laughed, a full out Guffaw!. With a smile on my face I explained that no, in fact, I did not call his girlfriend a whore; I was talking to the computer. He didn´t buy it, and spewed off something about me not having the balls to say it to his face. He was visibly shaking with rage. I repeated my defense, and he gave me Death Eyes. Then, thankfully, his (apparently whorish) girlfriend tugged on his arm, mumbling something along the lines of ¨Let´s just go¨ and dragged him out the door. He glared at me the entire way out. And I thought I needed to practice anger management. Yikes.

I suppose the moral of the story is that I should swear less in public? Or never assume that the people around me in locotorios don´t speak English? Or maybe there is no moral, and a Head-Busting American Meathead will be waiting for me as I walk out the door in five minutes to teach me my lesson.

sticking with it

So despite the fact that it´s far from perfect, I´m going to stick with this teaching gig (at least for now). I´m going to give it a little time, and become more involved in the classroom, and make the most of it. The teachers I work with are great, I actually got to give a lesson last week, and the schedule is fantastic. I work from 2-4pm, Monday through Thursday (yes, I realize this is a joke), and can take as many ¨vacation days¨ as I need.... which will give me time to take some private Spanish lessons, and travel, and just plain old enjoy Buenos Aires. Plus, James Bond is quite the charmer.

a q&a with neko case

Neko Case: Good afternoon, Ms. Middlebrook...
Lia Middlebrook: Good afternoon, Neko. And please, call me Lia.

NC: Okay, Lia, I just want to start off by thanking you for taking the time to meet with me. I´ve been looking forward to this day for a long time.
LM: Oh, it´s my pleasure! I´m a big fan of your work - this is as much of an honor for me as it is for you.

NC: Well, I´m flattered. I´ve been following your blog, and would really love to be able to dig a little deeper into what you´re experiencing in Argentina. Although I feel like I have a good understanding of your outward struggles and triumphs, I´m interested in exploring some of the internal battles you´re fighting as well, specifically in regards to your plans for the future.
LM: That´s a great idea - I was just thinking I wanted to give my readers a taste of what´s been going on underneath this impenetrable surface of mine.

NC: Wonderful. Well let´s jump right in. You seem to have a good sense of self, but it appears that your path in life isn´t defined quite yet. Do you ever feel like your soul is casting about like an old paper bag?
LM: Hmm, interesting question. I suppose if I had to choose between ¨Yes¨ and ¨No,¨ I´d have to go with ¨No,¨ but there´s a lot of gray area involved.

NC: Care to explain?
LM: Well, you´re right - I´m still so unsure of what I´d like to do with my life, and am having trouble defining what my greater purpose is going to be. These types of doubts cause a fair amount of worry - I mean, I´ve now entered my mid-twenties, and have suddenly realized that instead of heading full-force towards a defined objective, I am dabbling in this and that without making any real progress towards figuring out which area I´d like to settle myself into. However, I feel like I know myself well, and am incredibly fortunate to have endless options and people who will support me in whatever path I choose. So I suppose you could say that my soul is like a paper bag full of dreams, casting about in encouraging winds of change.... far away from empty lots and early graves, I hope.

NC: Speaking of casting about, do you ever find yourself gathering momentum just for the sake of momentum?
LM: (Laughing.) All of the time. It´s kind of how I´ve operated since I was little - I get an idea in my head, and I´m stubborn enough that I just plow straight through until I´ve brought that idea to life, checked it off my list. I mean, this whole moving-to-Argentina concept was formed back in college, and it was going to eat away at me forever if I didn´t pull through. Sometimes I´m not even sure why I wanted to move here so badly, but I´ve learned not to get in the way of myself. Things have worked out pretty well for me, following this tactic, and I suppose I´ll stick with it until it starts to fail. I believe that committing fully to something, even if there are unknowns, is better than holding back and never knowing what could have been.

NC: So you think that if you knew then what´s so obvious now, you´d still be here?
LM: Most definitely. Because what´s become so obvious to me is that this was something I absolutely had to do. To prove to myself that I´m capable and independent, to live without regrets, to see from afar how strong of a relationship I´m in, to gain a little perspective on my life and the importance of the people in it. I wouldn´t change my decision, even if it has brought me loneliness and sadness at times.

NC: During those times of loneliness, did you ever think that you could outrun sorrow?
LM: I now know better than to think I could ever outrun any emotion. I´ve experienced a lot of doubt about my future and my career, and I have to admit, I thought that by coming to South America I could outrun that doubt, forget all about it. I was defininitely wrong about that. I´m filled with as much uncertainty here as I ever was, but I´ve learned that it´s completely normal and okay for me to question myself, because through those questions, I can only imagine I´ll find some answers.

NC: You seem to be filled with such optimism; however, are there things that you´re still so afraid of?
LM: Of course. Isn´t everyone? I´m afraid that I´ll waste my youth, that I won´t find a rewarding career, that I´ll look back on my life and wish I would have done more. But I´m figuring out that instead of fearing these things, I should just work as hard as possible to make sure they don´t happen. In that way, something as negative as fear can be used to create something positive.

NC: I suppose you´re right. Now, I have a question that isn´t necessarily related, but is more of a guilty-pleasure, something I´ve always wanted to ask you.
LM: Go for it.

NC: Would you say you´re more like Margaret or Pauline?
LM: Oooh, that´s an easy one! Pauline, hands down. Life has always been easy for me - something that I´ve noted, and tried my best not to take for granted, but also questioned. What did I do to deserve a life so rich with love and friendship and filled with the kinds of opportunities I´ve had? What do I need to dedicate my life to in order to send all of this good karma back out into the world? Fate has held me firm in its cradle, and in that sense I feel like Pauline. I´m still working on the ¨cool and collected¨ part of the role, but it´s coming along. Once I have that perfected I´ll just need some cinnamon highlights in my hair, which I can probably get for under $20 here in Buenos Aires.

NC: (Laughing.) That sounds like a plan. Well, that´s all I have for you today. This has been a real pleasure, and I hope we can do it again some day.
LM: Oh yes, I´d like that very much.

skinny jeans

So anyway, about the skinny jeans. They´re totally ¨in¨ right now. And I´ve had hopes of pulling off the skinny-jeans-tucked-into-boots for about two years... which probably means that by the time I master the look it will be out of style, but so be it. It will be back ¨in¨ in another twenty to thirty years, and this time I´ll be ready for it.

And if the skinny jean-boot combo is a hot item in the States, then it´s a raging inferno down here. It´s practically all I see women wearing in the streets. And it looks so damn good. But then why, might I ask, do skinny jeans look so awful on me?

Don´t bother, I can answer my own question, and the reasoning is twofold. 1) I´m short, and 2) I have Runners´ Thighs (which is fine with me, since it means I can tear it up on the soccer field, but don´t come a knockin´ with your tight, little pants).

But I know that there are other short, meaty-legged women in the world, and I´d even seen some rockin´ out with tight pants, so I figured there must be a pair of skinny jeans out there that would fit me like a glove (a flattering glove, clearly). Oooh, what an exciting thought. I made it my mission to find them. And find them I did, but not after numerous failed attempts....

Like the time a really nice woman was helping me find different styles and sizes, and halfway through trying on the pile we´d formed, I tried to squat my way into a pair and the crotch exploded. Literally. It sounded like a gun went off. The entire seam of the crotch just busted open. Fantastic.

Or how about the time I went with my host brother, Ia, to Zara because he had to return a shirt, and while he was upstairs in the men´s department I found a pair of pants I thought might work. And as I stood in front of three huge mirrors in the center of the dressing room, thinking to myself that I had been sorely mistaken, I looked up to see him with a grin so big I thought he´d crack his face open. It told me everything I needed to know, but I figured I may as well have fun with it, so I asked him if the pants made me look like I was about to ride a horse. (I even went as far as to make the motion of mounting a horse.) He just laughed and nodded his head, and I huffed back into the dressing stall. If Zara´s going to sell riding pants, they should at least label them appropriately.

But then, suddenly, there they were. My friend Janine found them. Just handed them to me casually over a dressing room wall as if this kind of phenomenon happens every day. I slipped them on, and they were perfect. Not too long, not too tapered, not too tight. It was magical. And I suddenly understood that it must be this kind of moment that keeps hoards of women shopping year after year, perservering through the hell that is the never-ending search for new jeans, bikinis, and dresses that minimize your waist and accentuate your breasts.

Oh, what women will do for fashion.