First of all, the entire design of this blog is in Spanish. All the buttons. All the important decision-making buttons. This is totally language immersion, ya'll!
This morning I'm perusing a list of apartments to rent...more glazed staring than perusing. Here is an example: •COSSIO • 4212802/4213351 MP37 *Monoamb desde $650 Exp/Incl *2Dor C° Sur desde $800+exp *2Dor Ej del Norte 202 $900+Exp *2Dor d/s B° Norte $1400+Exp *3Dor 2B C/Com a Estrenar B° Norte $1800. GAH! Is it the puzzle of contracted words? This crazy language I thought I knew how to speak? It also doesn't help that I'm still coughing up last night's haze of tiredness and hilarity.
My schmooze-fest at the Teatro Ross turned out to be more of a snooze-fest, but that was totally my fault. Not only did I show up having not had anything to eat or drink for hours, but I was also at a point of sleepiness that totally pushed the Spanish language out of my brain. The play was in a small room, complete with plastic lawn chairs and prop-disguising black curtains. And there was clearly a tight-knit community of 20-something actor/writer/directors there to support the 2-year-old arts space. The play was a presentation of short stories by the Argentinean writers Dolino and Fontarossa, and the actors were awesome. There was even audience participation! But I swear that there was one story, intended parody a father's advice to his son, that left me with little more than the image of a yellow dog standing in place. Have you ever had that experience of being talked at in what appears to be gibberish for hours? Now imagine that you actually catch a sentence. You've even connected connected that sentence to an earlier anecdote! But by the time your brain returns to the play, the yellow dog is no longer an active character. It's frustrating, but funny too. And luckily, the actors had clearly taken a facial exercise seminar from Jim Carrey. Yay for animated faces!
After a delicious pizza, I returned to my hostel to find the two hostel owners getting wasted in the patio garden with a few friends, who instantly welcomed me as if I'd birthed their first born babies. Most were students studying French and English. We talked about pronunciation, cultural differences, and the sketch-tastic murder dens lying blocks from where I was sitting. (EEK!) Behind me, two travelers that had met days ago in Cordoba embraced the mood lighting and orchestral meows of wandering stray cats by sucking face. (I thought I'd forgotten that phrase!) Our hostel attendant, a 46-year-old flamboyantly friendly man interrupted sips of Fernet (a liquor, I think? Drinking it reminded me of many an accidental swallow of mouthwash) to interject anecdotes about living in the United States. Our off-duty hostel attendent spent most of the night assuring me that he'd find me a roommate-I love these people!- and then proceeded to feign drunk and grope a very relationship-interested girl sitting next to me. Mid grope from our awesome hostel host, this girl said I had a sexy voice. It was nice.
Of course, the conversation soon went to Nietzche and the state of Psychology in Tucuman (poorly applied and antiquated, according to a passionate Psych student), and then back to the growing tensions between the rich and poor in Buenos Aires. At 3am, I went to bed. They went to a club.
Still homeless, but enjoying the sunshine :)