Coming Down (2)


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The fact that I just had to reset my password to access this page can’t be a good sign.

Pardon the self pity, but since I wrote last things have been on the steady decline: my life is slowly coming down from the high of Buenos Aires.  Simply put, I had never been so happy as I was there, and haven’t since. Funny how one moment, or a series of moments, can make you realize you never knew what the hell you were talking about, what the hell it meant to be happy, isn’t it? I’ll tell you right now, anyone who thinks they know, is living in a box.

Over the past three months, writing has been something I keep meaning to do, especially while spending Spring Break in Beijing, but eventually ends up at the bottom of my to-do list, never even close to being reached.  In short, being abroad turned my world upside-down: I’m transferring schools (if any type of University will ever accept me); I was kind of dating my best friend until he stopped talking to me; and if it was up to me, I’d be running ramped on the other side of the world. Clearly, things aren’t going according to the plan.  The fact that I can be in Argentina, in only two months is the only light at the end of the tunnel that is second semester sophomore year.

I’ve never led such a monotonous life as I do here; every day is identical. I feel like school is a huge waste of $50,000, and worse yet, my time. I stimulate my brain more than these classes do.  You might think I’m exaggerating, but I literally have no work and am prohibited from taking a fourth language (I’m told I wouldn’t be good enough). The most notable activity of a day is seeing someone on campus that I once made out with and of course being ignored by said person on whichever sports team the universe fancies I should run into on any given day.

I dont know where I’m going to go, or end up, but somewhere different, somewhere where people will challenge me, where things aren’t easy, where the world runs at the same pace as my mind.  I need to be somewhere with potential and opportunity, and sad as it might be for those who go here, I’ve exhausted this school of all it could offer me.

Onto Dilemma #2 of fifty million: the fact that I was talking to/pursuing/dating my best friend, which my trip to China somehow sent into a rapid tail spin.  So, imagine late December, everything’s looking really bleak, and some drunken action made me realize I could lose this guy if I didn’t do something about it.  So I did, and things were slow, and perfect: the kind of perfect where you sleep in someone’s arms and where you can’t remember ever feeling like you were less than perfect; the kind where you kiss me goodbye in the dark, but not without hesitation, reminding me of the reservation we both have in the back of our minds… the kind of perfect you think will continue forever….

Then, things change and you wonder if maybe you skipped a page, or slept through a twist in the movie.  All of a sudden you’re back to square one, potentially even negative one. When do you fight to keep someone close, and when do you let pride takeover, hold onto your stubborn nature, and walk away? In this moment, I can’t decide.

So, where to from here? Maybe acting more like a reckless college student would make it all go away and I’d feel better? (MYTH). Unfortunately, running around careless and drunk is less than my style (I’ve spent the last fifty weekends going home to work, hoping to make enough money to change the life I’m living). I wish I could write that I’m moving on to better things but I’m really not: I’m propped up on my bed, checking my admissions status, waiting for him to respond, and counting down the days until I can be happy and home again: and you should know when I say home, I mean a place that’s a lot farther than an hour and a half away.


Which Generation was Right?


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Looking for an old history paper in my documents I stumbled across this piece of wisdom from the summer before college, who knew how applicable it could still be….


Which generation was right? Who knows better? Who’s to say?  More importantly, who decided it had to be one or the other?

                  After finding two twelve packs of assorted condoms in my room, my mom wanted to discuss values… well maybe this wasn’t her intent but certainly the conversation ended up this way.  Her generation had sex before they were married, but according to my source, not in high school and certainly not casually.  Ours on the other hand, has sex kind of whenever we feel like it — or so “experts” say we do.  As my mother explains why modesty matters, she details how sex is the last thing you give to someone you care about, as a way to give them all of you.  With this, she says you allow the person to have all of you when you have sex.  I understand the concept but disagree with the logic.  It is a much greater feat to get into someone’s heart rather than into their pants.  There is so much more to me than a vagina; so much more I have to give.  This brings me to the idea of the grey area, the middle ground.  Why is it considered so wrong to know someone well, care about each other and choose to have sex? It’s not! You don’t need to know the details of the person’s soul to be emotionally connected and physically attracted to them.  For example, let’s think of it as an emotional spectrum, 10 being you know the person as well as you can, 1 being you just met.  When you hit the middle ground, four to seven, your mind starts to think about sex.  Who am I kidding, you think about sex before you even hit one.  But by the time we get up to four, fantasies are more likely to become realities. To me, having sex at a four doesn’t make you shallow, like having sex at a one doesn’t make you cheap.   Sex will never control how close I ultimately feel to the person I am with.  Physically, yes you feel close to those you know sexually, but this is where love and sex differ.  The people you love are the eights, nines, and tens: the ones who know you inside and out and still stick around.  Those who know your deepest secrets, most bothersome habits, and biggest pet peeves.  At the opposite end, the ones, twos, and threes are the comic memories, casual flings, people you might have known better had the situation been different.  These are the ones who drift in and out of your lives, as they do your bedrooms; the ones who know your hometown but not your middle name.  The fours through sevens, those you dated, liked, were attracted to, were kind, funny, charming, – the majority of those one finds herself waking up next to fall into this category.  These ones may know your goals, passing thoughts, fears; they have an idea of who you are and like what they see.  Ultimately, there will be a ten, who not only understands your many aspirations and uncertainties, but shares them.  This is the one you want to keep around.

                  However, finding a ten doesn’t discount the relations with one through nine.  One through nine are lessons, people who helped you become someone’s “ten”.  People you learned from, people who impacted your life- if you realized it or not, necessary stops on the way to the finish.  If you wait for each one to develop to a ten every time, you’ll miss the fun, the memories, the rush, the living years, you’d miss a number of unique and valuable lessons in understanding human nature and understanding yourself.

False Reassurance


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Sitting in my empty home, on a winter night, when it’s dark at 6pm, I find myself drinking a glass of my parent’s wine and listening to the Glee cover of “Homeward Bound/Home” on repeat.

As much as I had hoped my Latin romance would write itself like a fairytale, ending madly in love and defying the limits which stared me straight in the face, I knew this would happen eventually. Sadly, fairytales are just books, just fiction, and although some love may defy the odds so much that it only seems like it could exist in a book, that can be real. But this one, not so much.. haha

So, first, I need to preface this with the information that everything at home has actually been going great. I feel so successful at work, and was even promoted recently. I have a really great job working in an industry I’m passionate about, and it has been the saving grace of returning home, filling up my time while giving me some kind of purpose in my small, sleepy town.

Since I hadn’t been left with too much thinking time, I actually wasn’t missing the Argentine boy too much. I’ve been in contact with my family, and obviously I miss seeing them everyday, but he had been kind of out of sight, out of mind. But after working a crazy long day Wednesday, I found myself lying in bed listening to the music we used to listen to together. Naturally, I lay with my eyes closed, corners of my mouth upturned into a smile, talking to him about the great memories we had together.  Although brief, the conversation remained comforting, filled with “te extraño”‘s and “besos.”  I slept through the night, purposely keeping our station playing.

So, set the scene, Thursday eve, after eating take out sushi with a best friend who was having her own shitty day, I texted him while we lied in bed watching TV to ask his exam went. After a series of short responses, I decided that I was ready to ask the question I’d been putting off ever since our first night together: “Estoy algo a vos?” (“Am I something to you?”).  I assured myself that this couldn’t be bad, because even if the answer was no, I needed to know so I didn’t waste my time missing a guy who wasn’t missing me (although continually insisted he did). The conversation quickly downturned when the text “I had a really good time with you” was followed by “I have a girlfriend now, hahaha.”

With a fuzzy blanket curled to my face and a puppy nuzzled in my side, tears welled. As always, I was lucky enough to have a best friend by my side, and we held each other, wallowing in our misery until the new Glee episode came on.

I like to think of myself as a pretty smart girl, and I knew all along that he wasn’t going to wait seven months for me like he promised, but part of me hoped he would be the guy who proved me wrong. Ah, the drama. En total, this could be algo cultural, yet another Argentine code I haven’t quite cracked.  But as I sit here tonight, after getting an angry workout out of my system, I know I’m really not that angry or sad, just a little disappointed and still waiting for something to just… knock my socks off.

But I’m gonna keep on singing my Glee song, ’cause I really don’t regret that any of that happened. I would have loved Argentina all the same, even if I didn’t meet someone there, but I’m still glad I did.  He sure as hell added to the list of things that I learned about myself while I was down there, and that will forever be special, keeping it’s own lock box around the Argentine part of my heart, that no amount of distance or change in “relationship status” will ever be able to touch.

The Phenomenon of Birthdays

This week is a good friend’s eighteenth birthday.  As I prepared her inter-cultural birthday present, wrote her card, and eventually attended the party this past weekend, I reflected on my eighteenth birthday, and everything I know now about those moments, that I didn’t then, and made a note to share them with her.

When I turned 18, I didn’t feel any different. I was, and still am, uninterested in the ability to buy porn, cigarettes, or scratch tickets. My birthday party was a surprise, which I attended after spending the day with my boy friend (at the time) and his mom. It was a luau, and beautiful, and if it happened to me today, the pictures would reflect me bawling instead of smiling.

Sadly, only now, watching my baby best friend turn 18, do I realize what a milestone the birthday really is, and how special mine was. Last night, we gathered around her kitchen table, sharing chairs, and laughing while we struggled to pick up sushi with chopsticks. Sharing a seat with the birthday girl at the head of the table, I had a new perspective on the party, literally. Looking around the table at the variety of girls made me realize that although I will always consider her entirely mine, she is something very, very special to each of those girls, and for each one, something unique. I know which admire her, which succeed with her, which protect her, but ultimately, she is unconditionally loved by them all. I almost wonder how it’s possible: a group of girls who aren’t a defined friend group, much less, who aren’t even necessarily friends, all find comfort and friendship in this one person. Furthermore, their abilities to put all other aspects of the past aside, along with ignoring the million and one things they had to do at that same moment, wholly devoting their time to this occasion.

Maybe each birthday is this way, or maybe it’s just the milestones. Reflecting on my own, I remember 18, 16, and 13, more clearly than the others. At 13, and even 16, you’re too young to know who your real friends are, and now, thinking about my birthday party, I realize that I had real, true friends at 18, but didn’t realize it until two years later, when I watched someone else go through the same thing.

If nothing else, from now on, I plan on having a birthday party to remember all of the “non-important” birthdays, 20, 22, 23, and so on.  Because a birthday is a day where you get to sit at the head of the table, and be surrounded by people who might not even know each other, but who don’t care. It’s just so .. happy, and personal and special: how often do you have everyone you love together?

Confronting Sad Realities


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The last time I wrote was Friday, almost a week ago, when I was forced to say goodbye to my Argentine boy. A lot has happened since then, and each morning, when I would normally chronicle the whirlwind of emotions over a cup of coffee, I couldn’t bring myself to crack my laptop.  It didn’t take very long for me to realize that I in fact was living in denial, and couldn’t bear to confront the reality of my emotions as I left the city that had become my own.

But now, back in Mystic, sitting in Starbucks on this chilly morning, it’s time to get it out. Goodbye was a horrible countdown, as each new day meant parting with another person, dragging out the process. First, my boy on friday; then my best friend on Saturday, more friends on Sunday, and the family on Monday.

Sunday, Mom and I sat on the floor of her bedroom, looking through childhood photos, me trying to pick my favorites to bring home. Suddenly, Mom was holding a little bag, and said she had a gift for me. Before I even opened it I was crying. It was a silver necklace with a Tree of Life pendant.  Mom proceeded to explain to me that I have roots in Connecticut, but now Argentina is where my roots are too, and how they will forever be a part of me and the person I grow to become. (I didn’t get the full explanation of the meaning until later because we were both crying).

Sunday night, the whole family came over and we had an elaborate dinner, full of laughs and childhood stories. My personal favorite was when Clari retold a Christmas book she wrote for Mom one year, in which everyone either died or went to other planets.  I spent the majority of the dinner zoning out, staring at each of these people that I loved more than anything else, and trying not to burst into tears at the thought that that would be our last family dinner together for a long time.  When forced to say goodbye to my oldest sister, the tears started flowing.  My baby sister, Ine, cuddled me on the couch and helped me pack, reminding me of all the good things that were waiting for me at home.  She was so comforting even though I knew she was hurting too.

Monday I tried to distract myself from the world ending by going to get my hair done.  To kill extra time, I walked there… for like two hours (needless to say I took a cab home).  Fran, my only brother, rushed home from school so he could come with us to the airport. We chatted in the back seat as Mom pointed at anyone unusual on the street, and Rafa drove like “Jack Bauer” in between trucks. It was very nostalgic.  When we eventually arrived at Ezeiza, I expected to just be dropped off and hugged goodbye, but I should have known the Argentines would never say goodbye like that.  Not only was I accompanied inside, but we all had a coffee and reminisced. Mom assured me that even though I totaled my car before coming to Argentina, there would be one waiting for me when I got home, because I’m a “good girl” (no such luck). Eventually, they accompanied me to the gate. I can’t express to you the sinking feeling in my heart that took over when I had to pull away from my family. I would have stayed hugging them forever if I could have. Forcing myself to go, I turned back from the security check point to see the faces of my Mom and brother, with sad smiles and glassy eyes, waving goodbye, their faces framed by the shoulders of people between us.

And so while I went through security, and sat waiting at the gate, I cried for them, for losing them, for missing them. All of a sudden, there was no more denying, I was alone again, in the airport, heading home.  Sitting at that gate, I asked myself a million times if this was even the right thing to do, if I should run out of the terminal and into a cab, instead of boarding the plane. But I didn’t.

I have a lot of adjusting to do, and I don’t feel like I belong here anymore: everyone’s speaking English, strangers don’t want to be my friends, and people look at me with the crazy eyes when I talk to them and make dumb jokes.  This American hostility just isn’t my thing, and I’m truly sad that I am going to have to adjust back to it, as there is no reason that I would ever want to.

While I love having the holiday Starbucks flavors on mornings like this, I am missing home, and the people that go with it. I’m left with the ever-recurring question: What am I doing with my life now?

Saying Goodbye (Part 1)



This morning I was confronted with the task of saying goodbye to the boy/boyfriend/person I see a lot. 

We spent last night drinking champagne, eating chocolate, and watching the coverage of the nationwide protest. This eventually progressed to watching American music videos from the 90s, which resulted in lots of giggles and us trying to spell “blood” with our hands (he started it with “westside”). It should come as no surprise that I continued to fake little reactions to the TV, occasionally adding a laugh, as I let myself drift off to sleep. 

Finally this morning we had relief from the 95 degree heat, so much that I hardly even broke a sweat as he walked me home. Stopped at a cross walk, I asked him if he thought we would see each other again.  Once he translated what I was saying, he responded with, “of course, when you return to Argentina.” Talk about bittersweet, considering thats at least seven months away.

Trying to put it out of my mind, we walked hand in hand, smiling as we tried to avoid the throngs of people crowding the sidewalks. Realizing my doorman was actually at the door for once, I asked the boy if he wanted to come in to say goodbye.  He replied, “claro (clearly)” but didn’t know where he was and accidentally passed the building, forcing me to grab his (huge) bicep and guide him inside, while the doorman watched, chuckling, obviously putting two and two together. 

Stepping inside the granite foyer of my building, I leaned against the wall and we just stared at each other, both not knowing what to do.  How do you say goodbye? So we tried our best, as he rubbed my back and assured me we would see each other again, and that we would talk.  Forcing myself to pull away, I told him “haste luego” and turned to go, without looking back.  As I waited for the elevator, I heard him tell the doorman “chau” and go on his way.  A weird sensation consumed me, and as I entered the mirrored elevator, I noticed my eyes looked a little glassy.  Surprised, I refused to allow myself to feel sad, and put the impending tears away for some other time. 

As any soon-to-be-lonely girl would, I returned to my apartment and served myself a heaping spoonful of Dulce de Leche and the fruit salad I made yesterday while waiting for him to pick me up. Sitting in the living room, as the rain begins to fall and cool air once again fills the apartment, I know everything is in it’s place. I knew the goodbyes would eventually arrive, even when I arrived here four months ago, and underestimated how hard they would be. But I wouldn’t take it back for the world.  I am so glad to have met him, and spent two of my months here with such an interesting person.  I know going home will be hard, in many ways, and I imagine myself laying on my real, squishy, pillow top mattress, wishing he could be there with me on the days when I feel alone. You might be wondering if we were in love, and I don’t think we were, but we were something where we shared our secrets and were wholly …together. 

The scary part about saying goodbye is that, as we all know, finding someone who fits that place in your life can be quite difficult.  As I’ve realized before, these people are not gone when we leave them, they are simply in another life, cohabiting with other people in other places, but always remembered in the mind, and always out there if you need to go find them again. 

And with that, I will remember this guy forever, and maybe even see him again if the universe wills it. But if not, I will be able to look back on this and know that he meant something to me, and in this moment, made me so happy. In truth, who knows what life has in store for us?

What the End of the World (Geographically) Feels Like

This past weekend, my study abroad program took our group on an excursion to the end of the earth. It was not only different than any other place I have ever been, but different from any other group trip I’ve ever experienced. 

We flew out Friday morning, for some reason both our flights were full of turbulence, so I’m thinking it must be that Antarctic air.  We arrived at a pipsqueak kind of airport, like what you’d have on Cape Cod or Nantucket, and it was literally blizzarding.  Trying not to be too much of a downer (because this was obviously not what I signed up for when I chose to study abroad in “tropical” Argentina), I hid my tears behind sunglasses and made unrecognizable noises of disapproval as we boarded the bus. 


From there, we drove to our hotel, which consisted individual little cottages, in which my group received a lofted suite. This excursion required us to cover our own meals so we hiked to the grocery store and bought excessive amounts of empanadas. The day got exponentially better when we were able to go on our boat tour of the Beagle Canal even though the weather was threatening. I’m telling you we literally went to an Island of Penguins… I spent most of the time squealing.  Also I thought I might be getting frost bite when my hands weren’t responding when I tried to take pictures, but they were fine, eventually.  Casually the coldest I have ever been though. (If you’re geographically curious, the Beagle Canal connects the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans and is at the very tip of Argentina.) We were so lucky to go on the boat tour, it was incredible with all the snow and the waves shaking the boat.  I listened to Requiem for a Dream in an attempt to find music epic enough to match our actions. Also it would’ve been pretty damn cool to say I died in the waters of the Antarctic listening to Requiem for a Dream. 


That night we made a potluck dinner, which in fact didn’t come together until midnight and resulted in a kitchen full of eight girls laying on the heated floors talking about their parents divorces and the black sheep of their respective families.  Having nothing to contribute, I fell asleep, although I did find all of your stories inspiring and enlightening (don’t be offended!)

The next day we went to the national park (WHERE I GOT MY PASSPORT STAMPED WITH PENGUINS IN LOVE). Also, the weather was beautiful and I didn’t even need a jacket… like what is this world? Damn global warming. The park was breathtaking: full of rich woods, open water, and snowy mountains.  It was green-screen material. 


Oh god, that night, the whole group gathered in the boys suite, where we played the drinking game “Herman Kill-a-Brew.”  It’s one of those games where if you say the name “Luke Bryan” the next person has to say “Billy Bob Thorton” and “Tom Cruise”, and so on and so forth. The game began with 8 of us, going well, competitive but fun, but quickly went to shit when the rest of the group arrived. It really wasn’t their fault, but they didn’t know the names we’d already said and their minds weren’t primed in celebrity mode so it was taking them a very long time to come up with names.  I’m sure you know where this is going: Alexa and I quickly hopped on the Bandwagon with the boys, yelling and demanding people just be better. I started singing my favorite song while we waited for one name: “I hate everyone all the time”, its actually an original.  We knew we were getting too competitive and needed to remove ourselves from the game but it was obviously addicting. Eventually, in a lul period, someone declared the game over, to which I yelled all the names I had complied that hadn’t been said.  Then we returned to our cabin where the girls ate packets of Dulce de Leche and I fell asleep on the couch (like always). 

For our final day in Tierra del Fuego, we spent it being real tranqui while most of the group went on some hike which I obviously didn’t have proper gear for. We went souvenir shopping, ventured for more passport stamps, and ate a delicious King Crab lunch with our program director. 


While the city of Ushuaia reminded me a little of old Quebec, with its slanted roofs and cobblestone streets, the port is like nothing I have ever seen before; the combination of water and mountains is truly incredible. 


Traveling in Style (Finally)

This was one of those awkward traveling situations where I was leaving summer weather and traveling to Antarctica, where presumably it would be cold.  I settled on this “fall” combo:Image 

Wish I could entirely take credit for this outfit, but the sweater in fact belongs to my host sister.  I have been looking for one with the elbow patches like that but simply none are as cute as hers.  I debated taking it to the United States, maybe we can make some kind of a trade.

Just for the record, yes my carry on is green polo with tan accents, as is the sweater.


Why My Kids are Doomed


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This realization all occurred today mind you, starting in the bathroom, ending in Spanish class. 

Reflecting on Argentina, I realized if nothing else, I’ve acquired a ton of girl baby names! I’d write them here but you’d all take them because they’re so chic and exotic (so much so that I wonder if they’ll be butchered in the US, if so, I will relocate). Upon realizing I had almost had the first three letters of the alphabet done (1 A name, 2 C’s), I realized I didn’t have any boy names.

I mean this is nothing new, I never really have had a favorite boy name.  The only boys names I really like are the ones of guys I dated and thats simply not appropriate. In this moment, I brushed off the impending namelessness of my future boy children and went on getting ready for class. 

I get to Spanish, do my circumcision presentation and everything went well.  Then we broke off into groups to discuss the homework, which was supposed to help us practice some verb tense by talking about the type of parents we grew up with.  It should come as no surprise that I made sure everyone knew how victimized I was as an only child with two very strict parents.  I explained how I had a bit of a rebellious stage back in the day as a result of – shockingly – feeling controlled, and hating it. (You guys really weren’t that bad, don’t get emotional, PLEASE)

So then someone asks, “Do you want kids then?” Taken aback, I responded that of course I did, I mean I was just thinking of baby names that morning! Follow up question: “So what kind of parent do you want to be?” And so we start looking into my damned soul: up go the walls and I announced “oh, my kids are doomed!” I mean, most likely they are, but not really. I explained to the group that of course I imagined myself to be a more lenient parent, allowing my daughters to drink at age 16 and have their boyfriends over. Then I started to tell them about if I had boys… but there was no end to my sentence… If I had boys what? I’d be less strict than I would be with my girls? I’d never know what the hell to do with boys! Do you have to control them? I hate control. How do you make sure they don’t end up drug dealers or womanizers or mother beaters? Thankfully, class was dismissed before I got deep enough into my panic.

UNTIL IT REARED ITS UGLY HEAD on the collectivo ride home!!!! I was retelling the story to Alexa and realized I’m going to be a woman who has all boys.  I didn’t have any wood to knock on after I said this out loud either so now I’m doubly screwed.

My kids are most likely screwed regardless of their gender and this is just the latest crisis in my life that in all reality won’t matter until ten years from now when I’m a kid and a half into my marriage. 

8 Ways to Tell I’m A Foreigner


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1. Physical Appearance

Where to even start: I obviously dress like an East Coast Bitch – way too polished to be born into the Buenos Aires “grunge-chic” (it actually requires more work for me to dress this way, when it’s supposed to be thrown together).

Additionally, I have blonde hair, which everyone from home said would make me blend in perfectly: opposite.  There is not one natural blonde who was born in this city.

Lastly, my figure. Don’t misunderstand me here, because I’d die to have the metabolism of an Argentine, but I am consistently cat called and I can only think to blame this on my “little in the middle but she got much back”-feature (  I am also positive this is why I am mistaken for a Brazilian, as I am sure the blonde hair is the reason I am believed to be from Germany.

2. I prefer to run on the treadmill.

This seems obvious, no? Nope, people must not like to sweat here because literally every person I’ve ever seen at the gym, with the exception or foreigners, walks on the treadmill. I’ll give them this: sometimes they walk on a slope.  Bitch, I run on a slope. Anyways, although I have lost all of my muscle mass since living here, I feel like I run really fast, which is nice.

3. Taking Coffee (and water) to go.

I literally am a body of water, like more than everyone else I think. I just drink a shit ton of water because I’m always thirsty. I think this might be because I’m sweating all the time. Sometimes I pause from my water to have a coffee, but it always leaves a bad taste in my mouth which just makes me drink more water.  Point here is that I take my shit to go because the thought of being in class without a water bottle is enough to make me .. do something really drastic. This is making me so thirsty. Damn you dulce de leche candy bar! You’ll just have to do for now..

4. My headphones are white/I own Apple products.

For some bizarre reason, there’s no Apple here.  The first and only Apple store opened right before I arrived here so it’s super rare to see anyone with white headphones because if they want an iPod or an iPhone, it would’ve had to come from another country.  This being said, if you have a Macbook, you are 100% not Argentinean. Lastly, for some unknown reason, everyone has iPads and loves them. Ni idea.

5. I’d never be caught dead straddling my boyfriend in a park.

Buenos Aires is overly tolerant of PDA, even for me, and I don’t think I’m sensitive (or bitter) about that.  As previously stated, it is not uncommon to see a girl straddle her boyfriend in a park and suck face.  Today, my professor asked us why we wouldn’t do that? Didn’t we think going to the park and relaxing and kissing was nice and romantic? I took a sec to think about it, and came to the conclusion that I hate the idea of everyone watching me in that situation and just can’t be comfortable with it. This is all well and good since the boy will hardly kiss me goodbye, much less hold my hand.  Don’t get me wrong, I prefer this to the alternative.

6. Fernet grosses me the F out.

Fernet and CocaCola is the national drink.  It’s cheap, and I’ve drank my fair share, but it’s not good.  It’s bitter, and Rum and Coke is so much better.  Try it someday, but don’t bother ordering your own.

7. I secretly love the techno clubs.

If I was actually local I’d be totally hipster and only hang out in dive bars like my host sister.  But I’m here from the good ol’ US of A and therefore it should come as no surprise that I love the crazy techno clubs where everything goes to shit and all the sluts are black out.  We’re all so damn classy.

8. I am obsessed with vegetables. 

As hinted at, the main food groups here are meat, carbs, and dessert. I had spinach with dinner last night and thought I died, I was so thrilled. Anyway, I mostly eat breaded meat, meat covered in bread, meat on bread, meat next to bread….

This is why I run and don’t walk on the treadmill.