I remembered my camera this time

I had another fun day in the park, this time with my new friends, Elena and Katrina.  These are the new Jessie and Aubrey... in the sense that they are from BYU and doing and internship here in Cordoba.

We headed to the park to enjoy a perfect fall day.  The park looks different sans leaves and a lot less green, but beautiful all the while.  We also climbed a staircase to encounter a beautiful lady:

And some gorgeous views from the top:

And watched the ducks play:

it's a wonderful life

Exam Time

The semester has ended.  Exams have commenced.  Let it be over soon.  Please.  I had a total of five exams.  Yes, yes, I hear your confusion.  I have four classes.  Apparently they really expect you to study for studying abroad.  Two of my classes are actually year long classes, but since I am only here for a semester, I was told that I would be required to complete the work assigned within the semester and my grade would be the average of these grades.  Our final for this class was termed a "parcial" as it was half of the class, so we would have a partial exam.  I worked diligently over the course of about a week and a half and proudly turned in my 5-page paper at the end of our last class.  As I handed it to the professor, she looked at me in her cute, slightly nerdy way and asked me, "We need to talk about your final--when would you like to turn that in?"  I glanced down at the paper in my hand, and then back into her spectacled eyes.  She must have sensed my confusion because she quickly clarified, "Oh no no, this is your parcial... you have to do the final exam."  Shocked and without words, I numbly nodded and left the classroom--somewhat fuming.  Over the next few days, I fought the power--insisting that since it was only a semester class I couldn't be obliged to do the work that the other students have a year to do.  Sure, the professor said it didn't have to be quite as long as theirs, but they also have three more texts from which to use and divine ideas.  Eventually, I gave up the good fight and resigned myself to do the essay.  What's another 6-7 pages in my life?  It's not so much the word that bothers me but rather the lack of notification.  Would it have been so hard for them to mention during orientation week that we are required to complete a final exam to finish the course?  Or at the beginning of the semester, when we were going over the plan for the next few months?  Notifying me a week before it's due is just bad business people.  Just bad business.  But I suppose, it is just all part of the cultural experience, no?  It is obvious that they don't hold the students in quite the same esteem as we do in the US.  Here, the professor's time and feelings are paramount to whatever the student might have going on in their life.  Perhaps this is a good lesson for us--perhaps the real world won't have such a satin cushion as do the universities in the US.  Slight favoritism, and discrimination, things that are usually peremptorily squashed in the US are all but common here, or so it would seem.  Contrary to all appearances, I'm not complaining.  I am actually thoroughly amused to find this cultural difference.  I was upset about my essay--I know studying is the reason I am here, but at the same point, I feel like the real lessons learned during studying abroad are not gained in the classroom.  But I'm not going to worry, because as a very wise person once said, "If something is wrong, fix it.  If you can't, then don't worry.  Worrying never fixes anything."  So true, so true.  Deep breath, chest out.  Here we go Argentina, I love you too much now.  Let's finish this essay.

T minus 1 month

Well folks, this is it... we are winding down.  I officially have no more classes at la Universidad Catolica de Cordoba.  I feel three things: thrilled, sad, and apprehensive.  An interesting mix no?  Let me explain.  I have been in class since February 1st--that was a long time ago.  Although it was an amazing experience to have classes in Argentina, all taught by Argentines and in Spanish, it is a relief to know I won't see the inside of a classroom until September.  However, the end of classes signals the end of an era--the era being that of studying abroad.  I've known I wanted to study in Argentina since I was a junior in high school.  This dream, and a dream it has truly been, is coming to an end depressingly quickly.  Finally, with every end is a new beginning.  This experience has changed and is changing me in ways I haven't even realized yet or could possible have the words to describe.  When I come home, I will not be the person that left.  This is a little scary.  Add on to it the fact that I have one year of college left and then nothing but the real world.  I have been blessed in so many various ways throughout my youth; I'm not ready to leave it behind just yet.  I feel the responsibility and weight of adulthood around the corner.  I'll still find a way to incorporate my jet-setting, life of the rich and famous, as my father calls it, but I'm leaving something behind that has been the experience of a lifetime--as if that even describes it.  The other day I was about to start on some homework, and I opened my computer.  The still black screen reflected my smiling face from a joke my roommate had just made.  I caught my eye, and I caught my breath.  Call me corny, call me cliche, but for a second, I didn't recognize the woman staring back at me.  Again, I was all at once proud, content, and terrified.  It has been a journey in self-awareness, and self-reliance above all else.  I just hope I've left my footprint behind in the best way possible.

15 minutes of fame

So remember all that cheering I've been doing for Argentina?  Well it's been paying off!  I've been in the newspaper and on Argentine TV!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After a big Argentine win, the whole of Cordoba (or so it seems) flocks to Patio Olmos to yell, cheer, hoot, holler and otherwise good-time.  Here's a few pictures of what it looks like from the 5th floor:

So anyway, while we were down there, yelling, cheering, hooting, hollering and otherwise good-timing... we happened to be in the back of a journalist's picture!  Here we are in the newspaper (it's a little hard to see, but I promise we are there):

Who would think that during the next game, we'd get another brush with fame?  Kelsey was leaning out the window, yelling for the world to hear about how awesome Argentina was, when a few men with cameras asked her to come up and take pictures from Austin's balcony.  Being Kelsey, she let them.  After chatting with us, they decided we'd make a good news segment, and we were featured on Channel 26 here in Cordoba!  Kelsey may or may not have asked Higuain out on a date...  Here's a shot of the camera men:

....and a video, courtesy of Juanita.  My favorite part.... Austin saying:  Look at Kelsey making a fool of herself on national Argentine television.  I love my friends!

I'm famous!

GOOOOAAAAALLLLLLL

Cante y une tu voz

Grita fuerte te escuche el sol

El partido ya va a comenzar

Todos juntos vamos a ganar

Uh-oh, Becky's speaking Spanish again... here's your translation....

Sing and unite your voices

Yell so loudly the sun can hear you

The game is about to start

All together we will win

The FIFA World Cup.  It's a big deal.  I guess ignorant me didn't realize how big of a deal it truly is.  It is the biggest sporting event in the world and it really has the power to bring nations together.  I have some opposing views on what it means for South Africa--let's get into that.  First of all, the amount of money that was spent building and renovating stadiums could have built more than 9,000 schools and libraries in South Africa.  Are we teaching the world's children how to read, or how to kick a ball?  At the same point, as the official song of the World Cup says... "waka,waka This time for Africa."  I can't say I know exactly what Shakira means by waka, waka (other than to do the very addicting dance) but I do know that Africa in general will be blessed by this event on their soil.  The revenue and awareness gained are, perhaps, innumerable.  

So what have my experiences been with the world cup?  Well, I've watched every game Argentina has played/won this far--and will keep cheering them on until the end.  The USA is still in my heart, as is Mexico... I must admit I even smile when Brazil does well (but DO NOT... under any circumstances tell an Argentine that) Case in point, I was at the gym last week while Brazil was playing.  They scored a goal at the end to win the game.  Argentines are absolute football fanatics and will get into any game--trust me.  However, I have never seen a room full of such stone-faced men as when Brazil scored and won.  I accidentally let a smile slip out, and it was greeted by a look from the man on the machine next to me of such a mixture of horror, shock and disgust that I finished my set and left the gym in a hurry, watching my back the whole time.  But back to the point.  I've had the pleasure of watching the Thursday morning game in a bar surrounded by all too enthusiastic Argentines at 8 am.  Yesterday we watched the game against Greece in Austin's apartment, right over Patio Olmos (one of the main plazas in the city).   For a bit of comic relief, our channel was about 3 seconds ahead of the channel that the people were watching in the bar below us.  Every time something scream worthy happened, we all got a chuckle of waiting for the rest of Cordoba to catch up.  

The game had us on the edge of our seats as our boys battled it out on the field.  I was sorely missing my preferred player-- Gonzalo Higuain.  He scored 3 of the 4 goals in Thursdays game--and he looked darn good doing it.  Move over Messi--we've got a new stud in town.  Palermo was a nice addition to this game though--especially when he scored an awesome goal!  Nobody beats watching Maradona on the sidelines though.  Let's have a quick and dirty Argentine football history lesson.  They played football for many years--and then Maradona came along... and things got interesting.  Maradona is widely regarded as the best football player in history. In his career, he set world record contract fees and played in four World Cups--including the '86 World Cup where he captained the team to victory.  Don't get me started on the history of that World Cup or the previous--but suffice it to say that he scored two of the goals that have football fans the world over, and physicists, still admiring him to this day.  Then, in 1991, he tested positive for cocaine, and failed a drug test in the 1994 World Cup as well.  You'll often hear the term "disgraced" thrown around.  However, he's back in the saddle, or should I say, on the pitch--drug free, as the manager of the Argentine team.  I think he forgets sometimes that he isn't a player anymore.  If you watch carefully, he kicks the ball whenever he has the chance and will often fall to the ground in a fit of anger at a missed goal and have a temper tantrum like a two year old.  Entertaining to say the least.  On the current team we have a nice young man named Messi.  Messi is the best footballer in the world, currently.  He plays for a team in Barcelona, Spain, but comes back to play for his homeland of Argentina.  Quite a team, quite a team.  

Listen carefully during the next game, Sunday at 3:30 my time.  You'll probably hear me screaming from Cordoba.   


**lyrics from "Wavin' Flag" by K'naan, image of Higuan courtesy of World Press

Viva el Fuego

... it's my new saying for Buenos Aires, and Argentina in general.  Directly translated, it says, "The Fire Lives."  Nothing could be more true about this impassioned people and country.  So often I avoid traveling to the capital city of a country because every capital in the world is alike, to an extent.  Now, now, before you go throwing examples in my face, let me explain.  The capital city, seat of government, etc. is bound to be a bit more metropolitan and a bit more busy than your typical city in any given country.  Try to prove me wrong.  Also, capitals are often known for their people--sometimes a different breed than the rest of the country.  Case in point, Buenos Aires is known as the Paris of Latin America and both Paris and Buenos Aires are known for their slightly snobbish, very proud inhabitants.  Having traveled in both, I concur.  It's not that I dislike the people of either, they just know that they come from a special place, and want to make sure you know it too.  However, Buenos Aires surprised me in ways I haven't even comprehended yet.  Buenos Aires appears to be the epitome of all that is Argentina, especially during the festivities for the bicentennial.   The fire lives--in Buenos Aires.

So what of this fire?  Well, pardon the very general and somewhat stereotypical statements I am about to make: Argentine's are not hard-workers.  In fact, as a whole, they avoid anything that appears like hard work as if it was an infectious disease.  The result is apparent in the lack of customer service, and the general lethargy of their economy.  I know that there are Argentine's with sweat on their brow working hard every day; I just haven't met them yet.  The general public has been swindled and taken advantage of for many of its 200 years as a nation--you can't blame them for being less than thrilled about giving it their all.

However, their passion has remained alive in other ways.  The resilience of these people astounds me.  They stand by what is Argentine and they defend it to the bloody end.  They are fiercely proud and fiercely protective of their culture and their loves.  It's not a cultural cliche, the tango absolutely defines these people.  The tango is a dance of passion, a dance of forsaken love, a dance of yearning.  They don't need to be told they've been subjugated in the past, but you can't hear how they've stayed strong.  Instead, you can only see it.  You can see it in the fire that truly lives.

Walk into a futbol stadium, any stadium, and see the fire.  See the fire in the eyes of a father as he holds his child's hand and points out a favored player.  See the fire in the pointing finger as the grandpa next to you shouts rather colorful insults at the referee who is clearly blind, and/or watching a different soccer match.  See the fire in the ferocious waving of the Argentine flag at every goal.

The fire is always there... just below the surface.  Even sitting in cafes, the fire is there.  Argentines are known for their cafe culture.  The fire is tangible in the way they sit, the way they sip.  The conversation is always lively, people interrupting, half rising in their seat to be heard above the rest.  An Argentine loves nothing more than a good discussion--the more heated, the better.

Like other Latin American cultures, they take things a step slower here.  Everything is relaxed, including time schedules, meals, and friendships.  It should never be mistaken for a lack of caring or a lack of passion.  At the beginning of my experience here, I think I made that mistake.  But, after a lot of time and a lot of interaction,  I see the fire.  I feel the fire.  I live the fire.  To find your passion, to find your fire, makes life a bit sweeter.  To take what you care for and magnify it---amazing.

The fire is absolutely tangible.  The fire is absolutely real.  Viva el fuego.

Madres de la Plaza de Mayo

Every Thursday, at 3:30 p.m. on the dot, a group of grandmotherly women, wrapped in white head scarves, take to the Plaza de Mayo in front of the Casa Rosada (the Argentine equivalent of the White House) to demonstrate as they have for over three decades now.  During the Dirty War in Argentina, 1976-1983, thousands of people disappeared.  It is a misnomer, it wasn't a war so much as a highly corrupt and violent series of military dictators that ruled with an iron fist and a quick hand to jail people.  The issue is, once they were jailed, they were rarely heard from again.  To this day there is little to no evidence of where they went, what happened to them, or sadly even, where their remains are.  Since April 30th, 1977, the mothers of the disappeared have gathered in the plaza to beg for information.

We gathered with them last week, and watched their solemn and steady procession.  We heard as names of some of the disappeared were announced for one and all to listen.  It was powerful, and shaking to the core.

After the procession, I had the opportunity to talk with some of the mothers.  I met one of the original fourteen.  She has been coming to the Plaza every Thursday since that first day, always with photos of her daughter and son-in-law, and a blank sheet for the grandchild she will never know.  Her daughter gave birth in a concentration camp, but she has found no further record of the child, or of the parents.  To see first hand the emotion in this mother's eyes was so moving and profound.  Often people throw around statistics of this many casualties in a war, or that many disappeared.  Statistics don't show you the personal horror that these women face and have faced for thirty-three years.  I admire their strength and their determination to return rain or shine and let their message ring true.  True love never fails.