Anna and I must be really really ridiculously good looking

Because Lowell Bailey stopped us on Averyville Road to introduce himself. Okay, so we were rollerskiing, and he did start talking about skiing at first, but the conversation did turn itself to the scintillating topics of: his music at the recent BarbecueFest and his possibly failed engagement to one of Anna and Ollie's buddies from last summer. Unfortunately, we were too starstruck to tell him how much we love our team's adopted anthem, Fire Them Down. And he was too awed by our sweaty and rain-drenched good looks to ask for our numbers.

To finish, check us out on the fourth:
yeah, i made both those shirts.

What season is it?

Winter. Again. No summer for me this year. Not that winter in Buenos Aires is really winter. And it has been really cold a few days. I mean, who in their right mind would consider wearing less than a sweater, jacket, scarf, and hat when it is only 10C (50F) outside? I have started getting used to the mumbles when I go running in shorts ("crazy girl's gonna die, it's freezing"). I think my personal favorite was one I heard this morning: "So what, you gonna wear a jacket in the middle of the summer then?"

The city itself is HUGE. There are quite literally 500 bus lines and your standard avenida has no fewer than 8 lanes in one direction. Not that anyone actually pays attention to lanes. I was prepared for the Spanish to be spoken fairly quickly, but not for the accent, which replaces anything that would normally sound like "y" in Spanish (including "ll") with something more like "sh" or "shj." The end result was that the first few days were rather like being in the middle of NYC at rush hour and only understanding every third word.

I'm staying in a residencia, which is kinda like living in the dorms again, except with 4 people sharing a room the size of your average single. So far, there are or have been kids here from the US, Argentina, Brazil, Colombia, Bolivia, Peru, Mexico, Spain, France, and South Africa. Right now I'm the only American and would be the only English-speaker if not for the South African guys (who might as well speak a different language because while fluent, their Afrikaner accent is strong enough that I have problems understanding them). I end up playing translator for those three, which has had its entertaining moments.

Because my naturally blonde hair makes it 95% certain I'm a foreigner before I open my mouth, I've been carefully studying other ways of seeming less like a gringa. For the fashion minded, a few tips on how to dress like an Argentinian:

- Wear layers. Lots of them. Preferably of mismatched color and print.

- Cover your neck. This means either a scarf or a turtleneck. Yes, turtleneck.

- Roll up your jeans. This one is actually sensible- they shouldn't drag.

- Converse Allstars. Mandatory. May be occasionally substitute knee high leather boots if female.

- Obviously attended-to hair. For women, this means lots of layers, side part, half up, well-concealed bobby pins. For guys, this means more hair gel than I used in my last ballet performance when my hair stayed in a French twist on its own, without pins.

The end result of this careful study is that I have occasionally been asked for directions by random people on the street. Of course, the entire illusion falls apart the instant I open my mouth. Oops. It was kinda funny though to let an American guy on the bus struggle through an entire explanation of how lost he was and where he needed to go in (interesting) Spanish before I responded in English.

Speaking of random people on the street... So it turns out that Argentinian guys are much more aggressive when it comes to persuing women. Example: while walking down the street on a holiday Monday morning, I was approached by a man in business dress who appeared to be about 30. He explained that he never does this sort of thing, but that I am the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he just had to tell me that, and would I like to go get coffee? Not the only time here I have been asked out to coffee by a random guy while waiting to cross the street. The starring, whistling, and side comments have led to plenty of awkward moments. Including when I was discussing sports related scars with one of the guys at the residencia and rolled up my pant leg to show off a particularly impressive rollerskiing scar (for reference, see "my ass looks like hamburger" from sometime in the end of March), only to discover that the Colombian guy I was talking to has a calf fetish. Um, yeah... On the bright side, I've discovered that when I get dressed up, I can get on the subway for free.


Lab is great. It's mostly guys and they are generally younger than the ones in my lab at home, and therefore a little less serious about life in general. We speak a mix of Spanish and English because they want to improve their English and I want to speak Spanish. I've decided that it's harder to switch back and forth than to just pick one and stick to it, but oh well. A few of them were really concerned that I would be bothered by the fact that I don't always understand what's going on when they start talking really fast with slang (can you imagine someone trying to understand the way some of the people on our team talk?). I explained that no, it doesn't bother me, at least the dominant language is Spanish, which I generally understand, instead of Chinese like in lab at home. Kinda strange to understand more in a lab in a different country...

The food here is clog-your-arteries-and-give-you-a-heart-attack-by-age-25 amazing. I think I have had 2 salads the entire time I've been here. Oops. But really, people just don't eat healthy here. There's milanesa (thin breaded steak), empanadas (think hot pocket), and alfajors (two or three layers of dulce de leche, a caramel-like substance, between soft cookie-ish things, all covered in chocolate). Aside from being used in alfajors, dulce de leche can also be put on crapes for breakfast, made into an incredible ice cream flavor, and baked into the middle of muffins.

Okay folks, I finally posted. That means it's your turn. I love hearing from you!

Coil(s)