Getting By

As I sat on the second floor of the bus, rushing north towards the Iguazu National Falls, sipping on my champagne and puffing on my cigar, in my red velvet smoking jacket, with my feet propped up on a fluffy ottoman, I realized that perhaps I was taking it too far.

So, sans jacket, ottoman, and cigar, I, in all seriousness, reflected on how hilarious Argentina could be.

When I bought my bus ticket to go north, an 18 or so hour journey, I expected the usual premium Argentine treatment: meals, movies, reclining chairs, etc. When the woman behind the desk asked me if I’d like to upgrade to the second level for a measly 8 pesos, approximately $2.50 at the time, I figured I was paying for the improved view, or something.

At first, I was entirely correct in my assessment. We were watching movies, had meals a la airplanes, and the view was better: a bit higher up, a bit less rushed, you know.

Of course, when the, for lack of a better term, waiter came after about 5 hours and asked me if I would like some champagne, I had to seriously resist the temptation to ask, in an atrociously fake British accent, “Please, sah, may I have some more?”

I guess things kind of came to a head when they tried to buy me a prostitute.

Wait, let me backtrack.

After meeting up with my sister, and traveling with her for a few weeks, I ended up spending a few months in Buenos Aires working on my College Application essays, those good ole “Personal Statements.” I was staying at a hostel the entire time, Tango Backpackers, and it was right close to this neat little cafe. I had my sister’s computer, so I’d go down there every day during the week, order a tea, and get to the writing. After a few hours, I’d order a warm brownie with a scoop of ice cream on top (mm-mmm good), and that was my habit. It got to the point where I would walk in, and the waitresses would bring me my tea, and then a few hours later my brownie, without my even having to get a menu. Talk about consistency.

So when Mendoza, one of the hostel workers, stood up on a table during the weekly rooftop barbecue, and asked everyone to chip in a few pesos to by yours truly a “working woman,” it having come out that I was, at that point, a virgin, I knew that things had become far too consistent for a traveler to abide by.

If there is one thing I do know, it is this: patterns can be comforting, and easy, but falling into a routine can be treacherous for a backpacker. I’m glad I stayed in one spot for the purpose of writing those essays, not that I really dedicated myself too hard to them (only got accepted to one out of the five places I applied to, heh), but having the same daily ritual was, in retrospect, a drag. So, within a week or so of that dinner, I jumped ship and went north to Brazil, land of sketchy ghettos, mostly beautiful women (in skimpy swim suits), and monotonous food.

Besides, they only managed to raise about $3.00, a stick of gum, a cigarette, and a condom.

If you’re white, this applies to you. If you’re black, this applies to you. If you’re yellow, this applies to you. Basically, no matter your race, ethnicity, or genetic disposition, if you are not Latin American this applies to you.

Understand that, indubitably, you are a foreigner. Locals will often hail you with a gusty, “¡Hola Gringo!” while at the same time proffering some maté, a traditional drink. Or, alternatively, the guy at the bar that was macking on your female companion, significant or not, will say, “¡Hijo de puta, Gringo!” when you casually interrupt his romantic advances. The second is, perhaps, a bit less friendly.

Largely friendly, though, ‘Gringo’ is generally applied to Americans. This traces back to the Mexican-American War where, according to legend, Mexican soldiers would say to Americans, dressed in green, “Green! Go!” when telling the intrusive whiteys to get lost. Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not. True story or not, we are the Gringo.

So don’t take offense to it. Embrace it. Accept the fact that, the continent of South America-over, people are going to call you a “Gringo.” But make it perfectly clear that you are not only interested in learning about the culture and people of whatever country you’re in at the time (and you should be, South America has more cultural eccentricities and amazing-tudes that you’d be a fool not to be curious), but also do not want to be the typical American, brusque and obnoxious. And you don’t want to be.

It was precisely when I truly embraced being a Gringo, it only took a couple of weeks, that my enjoyment of South America simply sky-rocketed. To remember this for all eternity, I had a shirt made, plain black, with simple white letters that said, “100% Gringo.”

I’ve never danced with so many hot Argentine girls at the same time as when I wore that shirt to a club in Buenos Aires on one of my last nights in town.

“At the beginning of the eighteenth century, a word came to prominence with which it became possible to indicate a specific response towards precipices and glaciers, the night skies and boulder-strewn deserts. In their presence, we were likely to experience, and could count on being understood for later reporting that we had felt, a sense of the sublime.”

Alain de Botton’s words, from The Art of Travel, hint at an experience that is profound, exhilarating, mind blowing, intimidating, and terrifying. All at once you are amazed by how vast something is. The ‘sublime’ is beyond mortal comprehension, it is nothing that can be fully comprehended, only perpetually pondered.

My first encounter with the sublime was in the Recoleta Graveyard in Buenos Aires, Argentina. A graveyard, not the precipices or night skies of de Botton, although these would have their time, but a repository for those no longer amongst the living. Stepping into the complex is like entering a city in miniature: mausoleum after mausoleum line cobblestone streets, a pell-mell collection of Avenues and Broadways that would make any city engineer cry. This is the final resting place of the rich and famous of Buenos Aires, a testament to their family’s wealth, power, and pride. In darkened corners stare small cherubs, wizened smiles turned grimace by the relentless press of time. August eagles (or are they vultures, swooping lazily here and there, waiting the opportunity to pounce? ) soar mightily atop fractured columns, majestic marble archways crumble almost as you watch them, and door after door swings unhinged, dark portals leading to stairwells that seem to beckon passersby into the world of the dead.

Yes, the Recolata Graveyard has seen better days, but the reverence, the timeless care that has gone into constructing this Necropolis is evident in every marble bust and gold enameled plaque.

And while the city streets are but a stone’s throw away, walking through those hollowed lanes induces a silence that is at once all encompassing, and comforting.

I could probably just leave it at that, but for the sake of a good story, I’ll adventure bravely onwards.

My brief stay at Milhouse was defined mostly by two liter bottles of Quilmes, the local brew, scattered around the hostel in totally logical places. Bathroom stalls, stairwell banisters, and pool table pockets were popular places. In fact, one night drank them out of beer. Like, they had none left. I came down the next morning and there were at least 100 bottles scattered about. Between 20-30 people, that’s a fair amount. I mean, a very fair amount. But it was glorious, and definitely the kind of party you remember for years afterwards. Obviously I did. Do.

Unfortunately, I cannot say that I drank more than one or two. Given that I was a weak, inexperienced American, my tolerance was…negligible. In fact, it was almost non-existent. I was definitely “that guy,” in High School or, rather, preferred to do my own thing. Point in case: my first Long Island Iced Tea ever was, I feel, quite strong, an opinion that one of the plethora of English Guys did not share; he added more vodka, sampled it, and told me, with a smile and a pat on the back, that it was now, “spot on.”

Soon after finishing it, I had to relieve the contents of my stomach into an out of the way trashcan, or end up trashed, man.

I want young Americans to draw three things from this: 1) drink. A lot. Get the drunken binging out of your system before you hit college. I was ever so much more able to cope at frat parties my first semester, and I attribute it to two years drinking while abroad. 2) don’t be afraid of the, “puke and rally.” Sometimes, it just makes sense to go force a quick throw up. Ewww, gross, but it will save you from a vicious hang over and a morning of regrets. And 3) good times come more easily with alcohol. Even if you don’t drink, learn to at least sip a beer or cocktail while hanging out. Everyone will think you’re that much cooler.

Oh, and 4) learn to accept the fact that, unless you were a huge partier in High School, almost everyone you meet abroad, even kids your age from different countries, is going to be able to drink you under the table. And they’ll be quick to point it out.

I once tried to go drink for drink with a German guy, something that was not only expensive, but also painful. I spent the entirety of the next day sitting around the hostel, miserable, while he was enjoying the beach and getting some sun.

The concrete below me vibrated as 60,000 or more people jumped up and down in unison. Chants filled the air as bloodthirsty fans screamed their support. Flags and banners littered the railways, the most fervent of supporters running up and down the aisles waving their allegiance on a pole. And when the team walked out onto the field, the sky exploded. Confetti obscured even the tiniest sliver of a sliver of sky. White, red, blue, pink, all the colors of a leprechaun’s rainbow flew up like the jubilant flight of a butterfly on a cool spring’s day.

Nothing I’ve witnessed compares to this level of single-minded devotion, and the game hadn’t even started yet.

An annual game that is one of the most intense, and violent rivalries in the world, the River-Platte versus Boca Juniors match is, quite simply, intense. No one sits down, and you might get knifed if you tried. The two sections surrounding the opposing team’s single fan section are empty, lined with police officers. Before the game ended, thirty minutes before, more uniformed men, or rather, uniformed men in full riot gear walked onto the field, and took position.

K-9 units could also be seen, lurking in the shadows like a spider waiting to pounce. In later games I would see people throw balloons filled with caustic, explosive, or even rancid liquids into the sections below them; security cordoned off the roads approaching any given stadium, and tear gas was used on more than one occasion while opposing fans were escorted in on a bus, armored troops around them.

In South America, you do not simply go to see a soccer game. Oh, no. No, no-no-no. You go to war.

i·ro·ny [ahy-ruh-nee, ahy-er-] –noun, plural –nies.
A) An outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected.
B) Relevance to this story: the final score of the River-Platte vs. Boca Juniors game was 0-0

I walked into Milhouse that morning expecting a Party Hostel. What I saw blew me away: two liter beer bottles littered the common room, along with cigarette butts, and other detritus, mostly human, on the floor, chairs, and just about every surface imaginable. A few people were passed out on the couches, one guy was drinking by himself (obviously still carrying on from the night before), and someone else at the bar was paying for the fur of the dog that bit them.

I fell in with another group of travelers for daily tourist activities, notably a Scottish woman, an English guy, and a smoking hot, flirtatious Swedish-Chinese girl. That night, we collectively decided to go to the South American Music Conference, a massive gathering of DJs, world-renowned Tiesto headlining. As we were paying for tickets, the innate comic possibilities of accents were brought to my attention:

“So, Nick, wat do ye t’ink of [Swedish-Chinese Girl]?” [Scottish Girl] said, nudging me.

“Oh, uh, she’s cute. Funny, I guess. Why?”

“Ach, well…dae ya t’ink there is gang ta bay a beet of a feet between you and [English Guy]?” It having become increasingly apparent that [Swedish-Chinese Girl] was flirting with both myself and [English-Guy], this question made sense. After I translated it. Ten minutes later.

“Are there…I mean…Feet? Like…wait, what?”

“Aye, feet. You know, ah you and he gang ta need ta have a beet of a feet ove’ [Swedish-Chinese Girl]?”

“…Feet?”

“Yes, FEET!”

“…Feet?”

“…”

“You mean, like, feet?” I said, pointing at my shoes.

“No, ya fuel. Feet.”

“Yeah, I get it. Foot plural. Feet. Shoes, toes, socks. Feet.” I was still confused, and had no idea what she was driving at.

“…Feet. Eff-eye-tay-jay-(hay-tch)” She glared at me, assuming I was just fooling with her.

“Oooooooooh! Fight! I get it! … Uh, no, I don’t think there will be a feet.”

Learn to love accents. They provide infinite amusement.

Oh, and realize that Americans have accents to: I was in Athens for the Olympics, trading and selling pins and tickets with my siblings, like ya do, and, at a club, bumped into a damned fine Greek girl who said, with a smile and a wink, “I like your accent,” when I bumped into her. I was too abashed that I so callously elbowed her to respond. Plus naïve. Plus just plain silly. Hindsight is 20/20, but take it from me: try not to miss an opportunity.