Ten days ago, I arrived in Buenos Aires, where I’ll be living and studying for the next year. One of the city’s biggest draws for me was the public university, Universidad de Buenos Aires, which is recognized as one of the most prestigious universities in South America—not to mention tuition is free! Current enrollment in UBA is over 300,000, which includes students from all over the world who come to attend.
First Impressions
As I stepped out of the sliding doors of Ezeiza International, I dodged a few lowball money-changers and taxi drivers to gather myself for a moment. Terminals are fragile middle grounds to the outside world, fighting to retain the sterility of an airport yet under constant siege from the smog, cigarette butts and shouts from Right Outside. I swung my carry-on duffel off my shoulder, placing it on my 50-lb. Bertha that had accompanied me from the underbelly of Delta 367. As I took in the scene, I triple-checked for the cash I’d brought from home. For Inflation Reasons, dollars are like gold here, so comparatively stable that street exchange houses offer tourists twice the Official rate for US currency. The airport being devoid of any such rates, I instead changed money with a taxi driver, who happily took my dollars and also wasn’t a taxi driver, just someone who hawked around official cabs, undercutting them to pick off tourists. I bargained him down to half the yellow cabs’ price, threw Bertha in the trunk, and we set off.
The airport was further from everything than I’d realized, and after nearly an hour of driving I willed my cramping legs out of the taxi that wasn’t a taxi and blinked up at the buildings around me. Only a slice of blue was visible between the hotels and offices that threatened to seal off the sky. I’ve never been a city person; in fact, whenever I travel I feel like a bad Estadounidense for never having visited New York. No, this was a proper city, and I felt properly out of place.
I heaved Bertha from the trunk and rolled her into reception, admiring the hostel’s weekly event calendar as I waited to check in: Rooftop DJ, flip cup tournament, Tango lessons. Yes, all was in order here.
“Hola, ¿pasaporte?”
The receptionist looked at me expectantly.
“Ah, sí, lo tengo acá…”
I retrieved my passport from my backpack and the receptionist traded me for a check-in form. I stared blankly at the Spanish for a moment, my brain numb from travel. Apellido, fecha de llegada… I was glad to be free from the weight of my carry-on, I’d been lugging the thing since SJC and felt about ready to collapse. Nacionalidad… It was a great duffel, easily convertible into a backpack, lots of zippers, little utility features and the likes. Número de documento, firma… I’d only have to bring it up to my room now, the last haul before I could finally—wait, what? No, I put it right—
The slope from confusion to anxiety can be shockingly steep. Reflexively, I patted my front and back pockets, which to my surprise did not contain my carry-on bag. It wasn’t across my shoulder, or by the entryway… the rock in my stomach turned to a boulder as I ran outside, but the driver was long gone. Of course, the taxi was unregistered so there was no one I could call—I hadn’t gotten so much as the driver’s name. Defeated, I advised the receptionist to please let me know if a man with a simply wonderful green duffel comes looking for me.
My only consolation was that it had been my Pants Bag—no electronics, documents, not a measly unmatched sock. No, like any seasoned traveler, I had packed my carry-on with every sweat, jean and trouser I own. And, like any traveler who overestimates his seasoning, I hauled the thing through 18 hours, 3 overhead compartments and 4 time zones, all to leave it in the back of a taxi. After banging my head against the wall a while and praying my driver wasn’t a 32×32, I gave up all hope of his return and decided I was ready to face the world. I counted myself lucky to have lost only pants, but I was now down, well, all my pants.
On Saturday, I caught a bus to go Pants Hunting at a highly recommended thrift store. Six stops later I realized I had taken the bus in the wrong direction, but as I got off I noticed the streets were really crowded. I passed a trio of posh-looking gentlemen in oversized berets, then another… mounted police officers… lines around the block… wait, are those animal rights activists? That’s right, welcome to La Rural.
After asking around I gathered that something involving horses, cows, and asado was going on at a nearby fairground. I put the Pants Mission on the backburner and waited in the line-around-the-block to see for myself.
Once inside, my nose took me straight to the open-air grills, where crews of chefs were tending to fresh cuts of ribs, chorizo, and flank steak. I opted for a chorizo sandwich, smothered it with chimichurri, and, my other hand occupied by a cup of wine, began wandering the throngs of the cowboy conference.
All other senses overloaded, I wandered towards Noise and found myself cheering on a dozen horsed men wrenching a volleyball from each others’ grasp and throwing it into Quidditch-style nets. There was something charming about the peanut gallery of the dusty rural pastime—did I mention it’s Argentina’s national sport?—and the crowd’s passion was infectious. Between the towering ratio of cowboys to non-cowboys, impressive display of the Latest in Tractors around the corner, and engulfing aroma of horseshit, I could scarcely believe I was in the middle of a city of 18 million. Yet above the plumes of dust, high-rise apartment buildings patterned the skyline, a reminder of the La Rural’s insistent coexistence with city life.
La Rural was nothing short of a carnival of smells. After moving on along from the Big Game, I took a naively deep whiff outside a small warehouse decorated with rabbit clipart. Curiosity got the better of my wrinkled nose and I found myself surrounded by more obese rabbits than I’d seen in my life. While I didn’t see any name tags for the bunnies, I did notice a cage with the label Segundo Premio—second place. Huh, I wonder what he placed in. As I kept walking, my brain did a double-take. How do you even rank a rabbit? To my eyes, they all looked equally fluffy and large and, well, rabbit-like, I thought. The rabbit-keeper was not enlightening as to the competition’s rubric. I learned that hygiene is a key criteria, but softness still seemed quite subjective, and I didn’t see why heavier was any better, and… all at once, my nose was begging me to get out, and I decided the Rabbit Pageant Side Quest was better left a mystery. I stepped gratefully into fresh air.
Sobre todo
There’s something therapeutic to me about floating among the masses. Especially with nowhere to be, I was endlessly amused at being dumped—by a bus in the wrong direction, no less—into a completely novel cross-section of other people’s lives. Yet as much as I love my little solitary moments, my favorite part of the last two weeks has been meeting locals. In one recent success, I made a climber friend! Juan is in university to study Mountaineering, and has made several journeys to Patagonia to train. I hope to be like Juan one day, taking off to learn to guide tour groups through the Great Outdoors. For now, we enjoy the Wall, cups of mate, and a handmade milanesa after a long session.
That’s it for now, I hope you enjoyed this Life Update—until next time!
Lucas