El Maratón Castellano: The Spanish Marathon

Hi, friends!

I volunteer teaching English and guitar at a social center in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Buenos Aires. We are donation-based, non-profit and non-governmental, and we are really struggling for resources these days.

I'm going to be doing a Spanish Marathon as a charity campaign in order to raise money for this really great youth center. They do so much for the community and receive nothing in return. I basically plan to speak ONLY in spanish for the entire month of November, without exceptions.

Any amount that you give will go a very long way, especially because  of the exchange rate!  Please go to my campaign's website to find out what exactly I mean by a "spanish marathon" or to donate, or simply donate here:

My goal is to raise $1000 for Centro Conviven. Thank you for the support!

Lost In Translation

I'm still waiting for the day when I can actually consider myself fluent in Spanish. Before going abroad most of the students on my program had this magical expectation that within weeks we'd be waxing philosophic in class and chatting it up with every Cuban we met. Well, the fantasy hasn't exactly become a reality. Besides trying to accustom ourselves to the strong and fast Cuban accent, we've learned that there is an entirely different dialect used by most kids our age. Hanging out in the park or on street corners for hours(a very popular way to spend a weekday or weekend night) Cubañol can be heard firing rapidly out of every mouth. Cubañol is more than just slang or abrevs- it's a language in and of itself. "Bonche" means "party". "Hechame las pintas"- "explain it to me." And, my personal favorite, "come vidrio de marca" indicates someone is really ugly (like they ate glass and it left a mark?). I think about how "exclusive" the dialect of my friends is back home, how so much of our humor comes from wordplay or inside jokes, and it's crazy to think of all that in another language.
In addition to trying to seem "cool" and peppering my speech with Cubañol (which, more times than not, just solicits the reaction of people laughing in my face at how "un-Cubañol" I am), I've also tried to learn the many idioms that make Spanish in Cuba so expressive . A lot of it involves fruit. "Pura guayaba" (literally translating to "pure guava") means "bullshit. "Cojer mangos bajitos" (literally "to gather the low-hanging mangos"..similar to low-hanging fruit in English) signifies trying to go for what's easiest. Fittingly, there is a song that calls Cuba "la tierra de los mangos bajitos."
So far the word that seems to pack the biggest punch is "suave." Pronunced "swa-vay" (not like the shampoo brand...dad), the word can fit in almost any situation, but generally involves being smooth, soft, or fluid with movements. It's an important "essence" Cubans are masters of and us jerky, awkward Americans, sadly lack. Some top "suave" moments.

1. Getting taught salsa in a dance club. My many missteps and incorrect sways of the hip led my middle-aged dance partner to constantly repeat "suave, suave, suave." At one point he told me I was too "eléctrica" which- even though I wanted to be optimistic and assume meant I was full of exciting electric energy- is probably a bad thing.



2. When mixing any drink. A well-mixed mojito, cuba libre, or cubanito (rum and tomato juice) is always considered "suave." When we tried to mix our own drinks our Cuban friends merely took a sip and said "no." I guess a simple R. Kelly style "coke and rum" does not a cuba libre make.

3. When horse back riding in Viñales. We all tried to look as effortless in the saddle as the cowboy-style tobacco ranchers around us, but after it took us a good thirty seconds to get our feet in the stirrups without assistance, it was clear we wouldn't be as "suave" as we hoped.

4. In cars. The 1960s taxis here are delicate. Every time I absent-mindedly slam a maquina door it's met with a wince and "¡SUAVE!" by the driver.

5. When I played baseball with kids in a fishing village. Wherever there is an open space there are kids with a tiny bouncy ball and a stick (baseballs, bats and mits are hard to come by). I tried to put my high school softball skills to the test, but after my first strike the 9-year-old catcher had to instruct the pitcher to go "suavecito" for me.

La Vida es una Milonga

Every Tuesday at the tiny Musetta Café, el Cuarteto De Julio Coviello plays all the songs on their new album for the restaurant’s patrons. With a guitar, a cello, a bandeon, and a piano, they specialize in tango: the classical genre of Argentina that fuses Italian melodies with African rhythms (thank you, Middlebury orientation).

The result is a beautiful, catchy style of music that makes me feel especially sophisticated, particularly when I’m holding a glass of wine.

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Michael J. Fox vs. Brendan Fraser

Well, my school hasn't been held hostage and I haven't "blessed the rains down in Africa," but life in Havana continues to throw me daily curve balls, in the simplest of ways.

The other night I was at a dinner party with three people from my program at our Cuban friend's house. Louise-Enrique is a very unique Cuban in that he has his own place. Virtually everyone lives with their families- parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, cousins, whomever- regardless of whether they are 13 or 30. Louise is lucky, and takes advantage of his situation by having people over to cook and hang out as often as possible. Now, I am not the most domestic of the bunch, so I was given a fairly simple first task...turn on the stove. I walked up to the college-refrigerator sized oven and turned the knob for the stovetop. Nothing happened. I tried again and again, but to no avail. Despite my embarrassment at appearing completely kitchen-incompetent I asked Louise for some help. "Just turn the knob," he says. I do, with the same fruitless result. "Look, it's working fine," he replies, starting to walk off. I'm now genuinely confused. "But there is no fire," I timidly offer. And he just starts to laugh. "You are in Cuba girl. C - U - B - A. You just turned on the gas. Now you need to drop in a match." Oh.

It was a brief, flash of a moment, but it was just one of those reality checks. Heading to the beach with friends or listening to Usher in the cafe down the block can feel so much like home that it's easy to forget what a different world this is. Not that an old-fashioned stove is all that bizarre, but it just served as a reminder of where I am. I've revved the DeLorean up to 88 and traveled back to an earlier time, and that doesn't just mean cool vintage cars, but outdated home appliances and stores in general. Walking into a Cuban supermarket (the nearest one to my residence is about a mile away) is like walking into a 1950's twilight zone. Generic canned foods are displayed in sparse pyramids, like Warhol paintings come to life, but without the Campbell's logo. Department stores are a hodge-podge of cotton shirts, televisions, phones, a sole couch, weirdly old makeup, random Tupperware. And yet, most University students come to class in a uniform of blue jeans, converse, and a T-shirt, headphones hanging from their mp3 capacity cell-phones. They get their "consumer stuff" from family in the U.S, or schlep on the bus to the few stores on the island that carry only a small portion of the goods I could find in a dozen stores within a one-block radius of my apartment.

And as often as I envision myself as the title role in a warped Back to the Future, I imagine the Blast from the Past scenario that would ensue if any of my Cuban friends traveled home with me to NYC. (Blast from the Past was inexplicably a frequently watched Fleischner-girls-flick). Imagine the culture shock of stepping into a Macy's, Whole Foods, or CVS. And that's thinking big. A friend's professor explained his experience of leaving Cuba for the first time and his amazement over the smallest of things. His first U.S stop was the bathroom in the Miami airport, where even an automatic flusher was too much to take. He joked he was relieved no one else was in the bathroom to see his face of pure horror when the soap dispenser put a weird foam in his hand on its own accord.

Cuba is a bubble of land- an island in every sense of the word- with a sense of community that thrives because of how insular it is. It's incredible to, in a city as big as Havana, walk to my favorite corner milkshake stand and be greeted by everyone waiting in line. But then I travel to the store and, while gazing at the aisle full of one kind of Kat Sup (ketchup), remember, "Holy crap. There is a supermarket with a section dedicated to dozens of varieties of cheese on 75th and Broadway."

Spring Break 2.0: Better than the DR?

There is one thing to know about Spring Break at the University of Cape Town: It doesn’t exist. The one week “vac” or “holiday” in September is spent catching up on work or sleep (which Americans do neither of here). Anytime we call it spring break, our South African friends put on their best American accents and reply, “Ohhhh my God, are you, like, going to CABO?”

Well, Namibia isn’t exactly Cabo, but that’s where I found myself traveling for seven days, driving through the sand dunes up the Atlantic coast. Since I’ve returned, people at UCT keep asking what I thought of “Africa” because Cape Town (and most of South Africa) does not provide the cliché and stereotypical African landscapes made oh-so-famous by Nala and Simba. Namibia however, provided me with aspects of Africa I never even imagined.

The first five days our group camped in tents, went hiking, canoeing, climbed sand dunes and toured Fish River Canyon (the second biggest canyon in the world). We walked through caves with Bushmen who showed us ancient paintings and showed us which plants could cure stomach cramps, migraines and skin cancer. This was the Africa that I had pictured when I envisioned my semester. However, Namibia has only been an independent country since 1990 and its colonial German influences are clearly prevalent - every rest stop specialized in apple strudel, schnitzel and German artifacts that looked terribly out of place. As we left the bush, we entered the beach resort town of Swakopmund (also the birthplace of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt) where most people are white, German is the most spoken language and all the architecture is European. Much to my surprise, we found our own slice of Germany in the middle of the vast African desert (although poorly timed since the capital, Windhoek, is known for having the biggest Oktoberfest in the Southern hemisphere).

In a country my parents' generation still probably knows as South West Africa, I felt so far from Cape Town and even further from New York – especially during Rosh Hashanah. As many of you probably know, I am one of the few Jewish people on my program. So this break falling over the Jewish New Year did not faze any of my new friends. I, however, felt guilty in Solitaire, Namibia that I wasn’t doing anything for the holiday. But even in this teeny town (the smallest one in the country) that consists only of a bakery, hotel and a campsite, my friend Ross and I sat down next to an elderly couple. As they started a conversation they noticed my New York accent as fast as I noticed their Israeli accent. The pair raised their children four blocks away from me in the City before moving back to Israel. We wished each other a “l’shana tovah” before going into our separate campsites, and I remembered that you can even play Jewish geography on an adventurous Namibian spring break.

A snow day! Sort of...

A message that an Argentine friend left on my facebook page (loosely translated):

“Hi Amanda, the school is still taken, for now there are no classes tomorrow. I don’t know if the teacher will have it in the hallway or the street…but I’m letting you know so that you have an idea of what’s going on. “

...The school is “taken?”

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Shana tova!

Shana Tova (Happy New Year)!! So as of Wednesday night, we are now celebrating the Jewish New Year here in Israel. New Years here isn’t exactly like New Years everywhere else, though. In fact, I would say it’s the most non “new years-y” feel of any day since I’ve been here. Rosh Hashanah starts the first day of the 10 days of repentance. I actually haven’t been feeling well these past couple of days so I was able to start my repenting process early (being that I had to take a few days off from going out…tough life). Although I have been celebrating and observing Rosh Hashanah my entire life, as obviously expected, it has definitely been a different experience this time around.

At home, most Jews go to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It is the couple of days of the year where everyone finds it in themselves to make their way over to synagogue. Whether it’s to sit and listen to Rabbi Steinhardt and cantor whatshisface or chill out in the lobby with all my friends from my Jewish elementary school (one of my favorite pastimes), for whatever reason, the high holidays gets everyone out of bed and into synagogue. It is quite different here, it seems. There are 2 very different Israels. There is the religious, observant Israel, and the very reform, or non-practicing Israel. Reform here, however, is very different than reform at home. Everyone here is still living a Jewish life, they couldn’t escape it even if they tried: the Kosher food, the Shabbat quietness, the Jewish trappings; it’s everywhere. So, Rosh Hashanah here, at least for the Jews that I am surrounded by, is not about going to synagogue and davening all morning. 2 nights ago I went to one of my cousin’s house for Erev Rosh Hashanah dinner. My cousins Nili and Pinchas had 33 family members at their house for a wonderful meal. There is nothing that makes me feel more at home than big family dinners like this with all my Israeli cousins, including 8 little Israeli munchkins running around that constantly remind me of my little baby back in Florida (Zoey…my 6-year-old cousin that is my pride and joy, of course). Before this trip to Israel, it was only a rare occasion that I would get to see my Israeli cousins. I’m so excited that I’m here for such an extended period of time so that I can really get to know them, and become more than their cousin from “artsot habrit” (United States of America) who sounds very funny when she speaks Hebrew.

While this wasn’t the most religious Rosh Hashanah I’ve ever had (being that I only went to a Chabad “service” for about 10 minutes where I heard the shofar blown and ate some cake), I do feel like it was very meaningful and different. Sitting at dinner with my family, talking in Hebrew about the different things we were eating and their relation to Rosh Hashanah, playing with my little cousins with a language barrier that gets smaller and smaller each time I see them, made me realize that for the first time since I’ve been away at college, I wasn’t homesick on the High Holidays.

It’s a quiet week here in Israel; everything is closed from Wednesday-Saturday evening because Rosh Hashanah rolls right into Shabbat. Everyone stocks up on food on Tuesday afternoon from the markets and grocery stores as if everything is going to be closed for about 3 months, as only Jews know how to do. Ulpan (intensive Hebrew class) is now over and we have a month break for the holidays (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot). So, I’m off to Europe tomorrow morning for 3 weeks with my friends! So…Shalom, Ciao, Ahoj, Tschüs, and Au Revoir!!

Binders and Scarves...no más

Every year I anticipate that first week of September when suddenly it's acceptable to debate which composition notebook is best suited for English and which outfit is both put together and casual. Back at home, back to school is a holiday in its own right, and I celebrate accordingly.

Things are a little different here.

Come Monday we all had our first day of school butterflies. Our group arrived at breakfast unnecessarily early, overanalyzed what writing utensils to bring, and debated the pros vs. cons of personally introducing ourselves to our professors. Well, all our anxiety was for naught. It's only been four days of class, but already our group is picking up on the super laid back tendencies of the Cuban back to school variety. And at a university where solidarity is of utmost importance, Cuban students are more than eager to help us out. Five practical week-one lessons:

1. The only special school supply you need is a FAN. The classrooms do not have AC, and 40 plus bodies sitting still in a small classroom (known as "aulas") for an hour and 30 minutes in the 80+ weather, results in a lot of sweating. Within five minutes of my first class ever girl had whipped out a fan and I realized what it felt like to be a Cuban guy- jealous and over- heated.

2. If you arrive to class in the right place and at the right time, but there is not a soul in sight, you aren't lost or confused. There is just a very good chance that it is one of those classes that always starts 14 minutes late. All the students seem to know which professors arrive exactly on time and which don't, and plan their schedules accordingly.

3. If you can't find a seat in your classroom, don't panic or awkwardly stand around, go to the next-door classroom and borrow one. All the classes have those elementary-school style connected chair-desk combos, so they are easily transported from one aula to the next, (but they lack tennis balls on the bottom so they make horrific noises when you drag them). When I arrived in my third class and couldn't find a seat I nervously hovered in a corner until a Cuban student was nice enough to take pity on me and personally deliver a desk. I felt proud to be able to do the same for a fellow clueless American in my fifth class.

4. Don't go to the library! All the books are infested with fleas, and it's being fumigated.

5. You are not allowed to eat ice cream in class. Although smoking and note passing are permissible, depending on the professor, there are clear "Prohibido de Comer Helado en La Aula" signs on the walls. When frozzens (Cuban fro-yo) is only 5 cents, and it's 90 degrees, it's obvious why it would be tempting.

I’m sure I’ll only continue to learn all the norms and nuances of Universidad de Habana life, and eventually begin to understand the accent of the polish exchange student who I now only ever nod and smile at.

Che Boludo! Dónde está el Colectivo?

Spotlight On: "El Colectivo" (Also known as the bus.)

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Not exactly picking oranges on a kibbutz but…

Although this seems to be getting repetitive, I would like to stress that it is difficult to update this blog on a daily, let alone weekly basis! It’s not as though I am not filling up my time enough to write novels of information about my travels and adventures here abroad. It’s just hard to choose what people will not just read (yes mom, I know you will read and kvell about whatever I write) but actually find interesting and culturally revealing. So, after picking and choosing, here goes nothing…

This past weekend, 3 friends and I traveled up north to a Kibbutz (communities spread out all around Israel, where families live and work in agriculture, in a factory, in an office, or anywhere for that matter) called Kibbutz Yiftach. One of my friend’s friends from home recently made Aliyah and is joining the army. He lives on this kibbutz and invited us to stay there for Shabbat. After our 3-hour bus ride and 20-minute hitch hiked ride up the mountain (sorry parents, it’s the only way up), we arrived at our destination, just 1 kilometer from the border of Lebanon. To give a little perspective, the same man who showed us where there was an extra room for us to stay the night, was the same man who lead the Shabbat dinner and Kabbalat Shabbat, and who also poured us tube shots all night at the “mesiba” (party), which by the way, who knew kibbutznik’s knew how to party as hard as they do? As we sat down for Kabbalat Shabbat, my friends and I couldn’t help but recognize that we could hear the muezzin calling for prayer just across the border. I wonder if they knew we were praying as well.

The boy who we were visiting (Corey) joined a program in the US that transitions Americans into the Israeli army. So, Corey and 20 other self-selected Americans live together on this Kibbutz for 4 months before enlisting into the IDF. My 3 friends and I were quickly welcomed into this American “family”, since everyone was our age, give or take about 2 years. In this small group of kids, I met a boy who went to Tufts and we had about a million mutual friends, and 2 girls who went to high school with my camp friends. While it was so nice making these connections with my new friends on Kibbutz Yiftach, its hard not to feel some pangs of guilt about the 2-4 year journey they are about to embark on, as compared to the life I will be living for the next 2-4 years. On Saturday night, as I sat on the bus going home after Shabbat, driving past the West Bank and back to home sweet home in Tel Aviv, I kept thinking about the American girls, some even younger than I am, and how they made this life changing decision to pick up and leave the USA and come here to protect Israel; to join the army in the most turbulent country in the world.

With this kind of Jewish geography being played on a daily basis and my extended family in Israel welcoming me here as if I’m their own daughter I don’t exactly feel far from home…

Fun fact: the Hebrew language does not have a word for “skiing” or a verb for the word “rain”. I can’t imagine why. Perhaps because this country is pushing about 9,000 degrees each day with 0% change of rain for the next hundred years. To have these outrageous words in the Hebrew dictionary would be too much of a tease.

Not-So-Dirty Dancing on our First Havana Night

After enviously hearing about the experiences of my friends, the fourth girl is finally ready to share news from the fourth continent. Although I constantly pestered Judy, Chuzi and Katie to update their posts, I now realize what a daunting task this actually is. I've only been in Cuba for a week, but already it feels like a month. We've all been plucked from our routines and environments and dropped into a world that's equal parts foreign and mesmerizing. I feel like I'm three- where doing everything means doing it for the first time, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Setting off for Havana my expectations were...pretty much nonexistent. Cuba is a country shrouded in mystery for us Americans, and even though I have Cuban family, I had no idea what to expect. The country is so close- a mere four-hour flight- but it couldn't seem father away. Will I hear American music? Are Cubans really uber patriotic? Are the cars really all old? Well, it' pretty much yeses across the board. Vintage-hipster-dream cars cover the streets, Chuzi is right and Gaga is universal, and every Cuban we've encountered has readily professed their love of their people and country even while acknowledging the problems that do exist.

Our first night out was a revealing introduction- Cuba has a culture that hits you square in the face. Our group of 10 students was eager to get into the thick of it (pura candela, as locals say), so we decided to check out the famous Malecón- an enormous concrete boardwalk that runs along Havana's coast and is conveniently located minutes from our residence. Before we could see it, we could hear it. Reggaton blasting. And then a mob of people dancing. We were at a sight we soon learned was called "El Maine"- a monument dedicated to the sunken American ship of the Spanish American War. It's a phenomenon I've discovered is common in Cuba- a seamless blending of history and youth culture, a marriage of politics, music and dance in the most organic way possible. A marble structure you would expect to be photographed or admired from afar was literally covered with dancing bodies, people atop every possible platform and step. Our group of hip-swerving-challenged Americans couldn't have felt more visible and more out of place. But as the digitized (guitar? harp? piano?) intro of "Telephone" came on we found ourselves become a bit less self-conscious. And, to our delight, people sought us out to talk to us. Immediately we were asked what country we were from, how long we were staying, etc. An answer of "los estados unidos" didn't solicit any strong opinionated reactions, but rather "¿que estado?" and before we knew it were listening to Linkin Park on a man's mp3 player (mazel tov to them for finding an international following), and learning of the best places to eat ropa vieja.

Despite the surreally magical first night, it's obviously going to be a struggle. The Cuban accent is truly unlike anything we've heard in Spanish class and my salsa moves need some serious improvement. There are also complex political and social divides at play here. Instead of billboards advertising Coca-Cola or cell phones there are images of Che and messages of "Viva la Revolución." Classes at the University of Havana- where we will be total immersion students for the semester- haven't yet started, and it will be interesting to learn how America is portrayed and what about a "Philosophy of Cuba" class feels like biased propaganda. But I keep reminding myself it's just the first week, and I have a full semester to answer all my questions. So for now I'm content to take a back seat and observe, enjoy the end of mango season, and pray the DJ at tonight's club plays "Empire State of Mind."

The Study Abroad Comfort Zone

I have discovered I’m a terrible blogger. With so many new and exciting things happening this past month, I am completely overwhelmed about what to write about and what is important to share with my friends and family. But yesterday as I sat on my couch writing detailed and hilarious (if I do say so myself) accounts of the different beach trips I’ve gone on, my first attempts at surfing, bungee jumping, crashing an ATV, whale-watching, hiking, my first professional soccer game (and my obnoxious over-use of a vuvuzuela), the Cape Town hipster club scene, the different museums/gardens/antique markets my friends and I go to when we skip school on Thursdays, and everything else that perplexes me and amazes me about this diverse city, our cleaning lady, Lorna struck up a fascinating conversation.

Now, first of all I’m sure you are thinking – a group of 20 year old American study abroad students have cleaning ladies? But truthfully our program does it more for the community than for us. They employ three women from a nearby township to come and clean twice a week to put jobs and money back into the community. My peers and I at first were a little taken aback by this privilege and a little uncomfortable that there were people working for us. But also if you know me at all, and my love for Phyllis, you understand that I obviously struck up quite a relationship with these women.

Lorna, who specifically cleans my house, at 26, is by far younger than the other two, and loves to talk about life in America. Today, she was showing me pictures of her beautiful baby daughter and her boyfriend – who she told me was not such a nice guy. It was so hard for me to put aside my Western bias and not just tell her to get out of a bad relationship, to not put up with a man that hurts her or doesn’t support her career. “Listen Judy, I’m not that much older than you, but at some point you tell yourself – I’m young, I’m beautiful, I don’t need to care so much about this guy. I’m my own women, I make my own money. And that’s a gift. And in the end, it will all work out.” She continued telling me about her life before Cape Town, when she lived up north working on a farm from 6 AM to 6 PM with only thirty minutes break. And even now, Lorna is the only one of her eight siblings to be working, and supports and cares for all of them. Yet she told me all this with a smile, happy and proud of herself for what she has accomplished. As we continued talking she told me that I must be “brave” for going so far away from home, from leaving my comfort zone and going on a “big adventure.” I could not fathom how she could look at me and see me as the brave one.

Sometimes it’s easy for me to get caught up in the American life here, only hanging out with my American peers, going to clubs or cafes where the study abroad students hang out. Although a critical part of the experience is the adventure sports, the beautiful tourist attractions, and experiencing the university/night-life, I also did come abroad to learn a different culture, to have these conversations with a woman I would never have known otherwise.

Only In Tel Aviv

Shalom from the land of milk and honey. I arrived in Tel Aviv just 3 weeks ago and already I feel at home. While I have been in Israel so many times before, it always shocks me that such a tiny country holds such an amazing diversity in culture. The country blends Zionists, ultra-orthodox black hatters, secular Israeli Jews, modern orthodox Jews, Ethiopians, Russians, Moroccans, and the list goes on. Tel Aviv is such a modern and high-tech city in a lot of ways, unique in form and culture; there is a lot more to this place than Judaism and religion. Only in Tel Aviv do days turn into nights, and nights into days. Only in Tel Aviv did my evening start with watching Ultra Orthodox, Hassidic Jews dancing the night away on the boardwalk in front of the beach, wearing the religious garments like Tzitzit and the whole nine yards, all within a 5-minute walk from countless clubs that stay open ‘til the wee hours of the morning. Only in Tel Aviv would I befriend a soldier, and share a cab with him on Sunday on his way to the train station to get back to his base in Haifa…in full uniform, holding a massive gun, in other words, the ultimate escort. It always bewilders me that every average Joe that I meet here is either in the army, will join the army, or has already finished service.

There is nothing like Tel Aviv in the summer: going out every night, meeting Jews from all over the world from different backgrounds and upbringings, going to Ulpan (my intensive 5-hour Hebrew class) every morning, going to the beach every afternoon; I am truly living the dream. I am so lucky to be having this wonderful experience, having already made friends that I can imagine will last a lifetime. And with all the hussle and bussle that comes with the excitement and non-stop buzz of city life, Friday night arrives, and everything (besides the few clubs and select restaurants in the center of the city, of course) completely shuts down. Supermarkets, buses, the Shuk, shops, malls, and restaurants all close for 24 hours to observe Shabbat. The beauty that lies in the silence and calm of Ramat Aviv (10 minutes outside the city where I am living for the semester) on a Saturday morning could make any American, especially this one, question the crazy pace of US culture.

Ya aprendí mucho, pero...

Hola Chicos! I've officially been in Argentina for 2 weeks now. I just returned from spending a few days at the beautiful Iguazu Falls with my family and I'm happy to be back in the city. Classes start on Monday!

3 Things I’ve learned about Buenos Aires:

1. There is an abundance of little novelties I enjoy but don't need, and a scarcity of daily necessities I've always taken for granted. Cookies come with every item on the menu. There are stores that exclusively sell small lamps. Toilet paper, however, is a luxury.

2. There are no Spanish words equivalent to random, awkward, sketchy, obnoxious, or “make love.” Or so we were told during orientation. We were also taught that a one-night stand is called “touch and go” (said in English).

3. Gaga is universal. She is currently on the cover of the Argentinean publication of Cosmopolitan. I’ve seen her music videos played in cafes, and heard “Alejandro” on the radio. One night, I bonded with an Argentine girl who I thought spoke no English, until she insisted that I belt a round of “Paparazzi” with her-- which i obviously agreed to.

3 Things that every Argentinean understands, and I really need to learn:

1. How to find the bus stop. There are hundreds of bus lines in the city ranging from #1 to #749. Once I’ve established exactly which one I need to take, it is practically impossible to spot the tiny sign that designates where my bus stops because they are spaced out along the street in no particular order.

2. Why every person isn’t obese. Argentines survive on a diet of bread, red meat, cheese, wine, and coffee. Meals occur 4 times daily and the last one is after 10:00 at night. The cardio machines in the gym are programmed to shut off after only 20 minutes. And no, the portions aren’t smaller—they’re usually much, much larger.

3. Where every stray dog goes to get a jacket. Because they all have them. It’s freezing down here and I’m desperate for extra layers!

This is Africa.

“The three most important letters, that you must constantly remind yourself throughout your semester here in Cape Town, are T.I.A. – This is Africa.” My abroad experience in South Africa began with these first words. As the 45 of us in my program piled in to our orientation meeting around an hour late (perfectly on time in Africa), the director explained that we had now entered some sort of alternate reality – that for better or worse, we weren’t in Kansas anymore. South Africa, and Cape Town in particular, is a Third World community with some benefits of the first world. It is usually incredibly frustrating for American students to understand the inherent pace change – where the word “now” no longer has any immediate connotations. I have been programmed to expect a fast world where I can communicate, access information or even just do simple errands any time I wanted. But no longer. “If something is broken, if something takes hours longer than it should, if you can’t find what you are looking for in a store – just remember – this is normal here, this is Africa.” And after almost 5 days here, I have seen that this expression has been all-too useful. When they handed us four different old-fashioned keys that separate us from our homes, a chorus of T.I.A’s filled the room. When setting up a bank account took, literally, all day, our orientation leaders reminded us - T.I.A. When the director of international students explained the course registration process at University of Cape Town, and we all discovered it was done, without computers, on paper – we sighed a T.I.A. And only in Africa would 9 of us pile in to an 8-person cab filled with other people (and remarkably only pay 70 cents to cross town). But while my adventure in Africa is just beginning, and I’m coming to terms with the differences and the frustrations of living in a completely different world, I also have started to understand the things that make this city so special. Nowhere else in the world could I look up and see stunningly beautiful Table Mountain next to an unrivaled waterfront. Nowhere else can I spend four American dollars on a good bottle of wine from a vineyard close to an hour away. And less than a week since the World Cup ended, with the sense of national pride understandably high, the Shakira and K’naan theme songs play at least twice at every club to screams and cheers from all the patrons. Even with a crazy nightlife, the culture here is just inherently slower. People don’t wake up at 7 am to get to the office, the University library remains closed on Sundays, and unlimited wireless Internet does not exist. While all these things will take getting used to, perhaps it is best for me to just take a deep breath, slow down, become acclimated to this type of life style and remember T.I.A.