La comunidad urbana

Lately I've been coming around to the whole Buenos Aires, 11th largest city in the world, thing.

Note to self: STOP doing things you know you hate, ie going out to clubs, no matter how attractive the idea seems after a couple of disgustingly sweet mixed drinks. This will make your time here much more enjoyable.

Gee, thanks self.

ANYWAY. Yes, I'm still incredibly frustrated by a lot of things in this city (read: EVERYONE SPEAKING TO ME IN ENGLISH) but the great thing about the size of the city and large anglophone population (or expats as they call themselves here) is that it is SO SO easy to find out about really awesome cultural events going on throughout the city. I never really understood the popularity of the 'blogosphere', as I've been pretty disappointed by the offerings of Montreal blogs, but I guess I never looked hard enough. Suddenly I come to BA and I spend a record amount of time surfing the net rather than just refreshing facebook. Since when has the internet been such an incredible resource? There are literally hundreds of blogs about different and incredible things happening ALL THE TIME: Food (credits to Shana Hurley), Going Out, Alternative Cinema, Hipstery Shit that I Can't Get Enough of, and, most importantly, Hip Hop. These are just a few examples.

One of these blogs led me to an Argentine photojournalism exhibition, which was absolutely incredible. It's really shocking how little news we receive about the world, specifically Latin America, considering how many 24-hour news channels we have on basic cable (cue Jon Stewart parody of corporate media).




Another incredible thing about the city is how easy it is to get around. Though I have yet to completely figure out the whole Colectivo (public bus) system, I am a huge fan of the Subte (subway). Unfortunately, the Subte shuts down at 10pm (and I thought 1am in Montreal was early? Spoiled by NYC). Today a couple of my roommates and I hopped on a train to Tigre, a more residential and touristy neighborhood in the province of Buenos Aires. It cost around 3 pesos (less than a dollar) roundtrip AND was one of the easiest things I've ever done. The MTA needs to get in on this shit (Metro North and its $21.50 off-peak fares can suck it). It was a beautiful winter's day with a high around 12C/62F (rough translation, don't quote me) and we saw lots of cool things!
Highlights:
The smallest, cutest car I've ever seen!

People here live on the river delta and instead of having cars they get around by boat.

All of the houses were amazing, but this one was my favorite.


Now, on to what I really want to talk about: community. I figure the best way for me to make local friends is to get involved in some sort of community here in the city. In order to do this I have to figure out just what kind of community I want to be a part of. Some people have Green Peace, others have Ultimate Frisbee, and still others have more academic persuasions. I, my friends, am sadly interested in none of these. So what do I have? I really had to think about this. I mean, I'm not really an integral part of anything at school. Well, I like movies and journalism. These are things I figured I'd have to wait for school to start to really find a community/become comfortable enough with my level of knowledge of either of these things to participate in any related community. So… what else is Kelly Baker passionate about? Oh, yeah. MUSIC.

I guess this seems fairly obvious… go to shows, meet some people who like what you like, run into them at similar shows… bada-bing, bada-boom. The thing is, I'm not cool enough to be part of the indie rock scene, plus, a lot of underground indie sucks, in my personal opinion. Especially Spanish attempts at indie rock. Culturally speaking, just about everything latinos find "lindo" or beautiful or moving or precious is icky cliché garbage to norteamericanos. (I'm sorry, but greasy men crooning about how beautiful their young lover's eyes are over a few guitar chords is really really NOT lindo.) Plus, I'm not a pretentious, Pitchfork worshipping asshole. (Marko)

So, I made the very decisive decision to investigate the hip hop scene of BsAs. Hip hop is something I know a fair amount about and something I happen to very much enjoy listening to. This could be tricky however, because many people's idea of hip hop involves Lil Jon and 50 Cent or, worse yet, Flo Rida. I'm sorry, but to me these people are NOT hip hop. They are RAP. Rap, in my opinion, is the commercialized version of hip hop that is meant to be consumed on the pop charts. Hip hop is a culture. Rap sells the stereotypes of that culture. Ok, I'll end the rant now.

To get back to my original point, I was a bit worried that the 'hip hop' of Buenos Aires would be rap and/or reggaeton, as this is generally what is meant by "hip hop" nights at clubs in Montreal. Thankfully (thankfully?) Buenos Aires is not Montreal.

Alcohol + Facebook = Comedy

I'm currently working on two new posts, but can't find the motivation to finalize them, so here's a little story for y'all.

So, for what was probably the 5th time I've drunkenly deleted my Facebook account, I chose to make my voice heard. Slash my account was in Spanish and the reasons they listed for leaving FB were so comical that I really took time to read the page, and, unfortunately for whoever the fuck they pay to read user feedback, Drunk Kelly found a box asking for elaboration. The makers of CAPT already know it is unwise to allow me to provide my own explanation for seemingly simple, straightforward multiple choice questions, thereby allowing all of the demons in my head to run wild. So I let Facebook have a special peek into the abby-normal mind of Kelly Baker:


look, fb, it's not that i don't love you... actually, it is. you've surpassed your utility as a social networking device and have somehow transformed into a superhuman social necessity. simply put, i don't want to have to rely on you to feel like i have friends, i don't want to have to rely on you to tell me where da party at. I CAN DO IT MYSELF. you use me. you take my pictures, analyze my browsing patterns, and somehow make me feel obliged to log on to your website every 10 minutes or so. it's sick and sadistic what you are doing to society. It all seemed so innocent at first, but now i feel a serious dependence upon you. perhaps it is not your fault. i mean, why should an addict blame crystal meth for their problems, when the only person to blame for one's problems is oneself? i digress. in truth, mark, you have created a very revolutionary webpage. facebook has changed the face of the world. we are all much closer because of you. 6 degrees is nothing! however, i feel that i need to distance myself from this social parasite for a bit, and find out who i truly am, without the false guidance of your overly voyeuristic and manipulative website. i wish you all the best in your future endeavors, though i highly doubt you have many as i am sure you've already made your millions upon billions... again, thank you for your dedication, your scheming (yes, i read that article in rolling stone magazine), and your capitalist values. y como he dicho, esto es temporal; volveré, por supuesto.


...For the love of god, someone find me a lobotomist.

Week 1 Recap

So I'll admit it: I'm bit of a hater.

I was definitely not having the best time here for the first few days. My last post reflects the earlier stages of my discontent, which definitely flared up on Friday when I went to a deli in the Soho-like district of town and wrote a scathing review of what I had learned so far in BA, which I will not transcribe. It was basically a long rant about how much I hated the sidewalks here (which, to my credit, really are shitty--literally, they're covered in dog shit--and have massive holes/cracks/loose tiles everywhere). Overall, I was just really frustrated by how big and fast the city is, and therefore how unwilling people in the restaurant biz are to listen to you butcher their language. The one positive thing I did note however, was that, from some casual observations, Argentinians are in fact quite good looking.

I dealt with all the stress of being here by sleeping. A lot. But my misery began to dissipate on Saturday when I talked with one of the other girls living in my apartment and she invited me out to a boliche (club). We started off the evening by going to the nicest, most expensive apartment I've ever seen, and probably will ever see, in my entire life, no exaggeration. It overlooks the Rio de la Plata and downtown/boliche central and houses a flat screen bigger than the wall in my room, among other fanciful furnitures. The boliche was... a boliche. I needed a stiff drink. I immediately ordered a gin and tonic, momentarily forgetting how much I hate gin. No pain, no gain, right? Anyway, I won't really go into describing the club, as it was pretty standard shit. Though, unlike in Montreal, where men just grab you from behind and you can scuttle away, here they talk to you and it's a bit harder to tell them to fuck off without being pretty blunt about it. I set a personal record that night for consecutive hours spent at a club: nearly 4! Woo. But the boliches don't really get hoppin' (as the cool kids say) until 2 and don't close til 6 or 7, so we turned in early and left around 5.

Sunday I went to this sweet bar with my other roommates and our neighbor (who also hosts other international students) and a bunch of her friends for a pre-Dia del Amigo dinner. They distribute board games to the tables, so we played a jumbo version of Jenga, wholesome fun! Is it still wholesome if your only concern about the tower falling is whether it will knock over your beer?

As it turns out, Dia del Amigo is basically an excuse for teenagers to go out to the parks and drink 40s and smoke and take myspace pics of each other and disperse their angst in public. But my friends and I took a nice, long 5 hour walk around the city, after which my lower back was so sore that when I got home I told Harold to put the casserole in the oven himself and bring me a tub of hot water for my feet, oy gavolt!
Some highlights:

The graffiti/street art in BA is siiiick


Inside El Cementerio de la Recoleta, comparable in fame to Père Lachaise in Paris. Where Eva Perón, one of the country's most beloved historical/political figures, is buried. "Le lloran como si se falleciera ayer"


La Flor de Metal--cierra al anochecer

That night we went to a local drum circle performance that goes on every Monday. And I had my first Colectivo (public buses) experience, which was definitely an experience. The buses here are unlike anything I've ever seen; I'll direct you to this article for more information: Riding as a Collective


Think Tam Tams atmosphere, only La Bomba del Tiempo (the group's name) is more about musicianship and less about just being stoned while banging a drum. I guess that's why it costs money. That being said, weed is certainly in no short supply, but the dancers aren't those hippie fools, man, they fuckin MOSH.

Then we went to a small, crowded cafe teatral and saw (arguably) the best member of La Bomba del Tiempo perform with two other drummers and a (very hot) man playing wooden xylophone.

Then this group reminiscent of the Klezmatics came on, and the crowd actually liked them even better.


So, it was nice to see a different side of Buenos Aires. I now have faith that I'll eventually really enjoy myself now that I've gotten to know the city a bit better (I've finally oriented the map correctly in my head...) Today it rained an assload, however, and I returned home with soggy socks and a new found hatred for my shitty umbrella.

Oh, and I nearly forgot: renewed enthusiasm and high hopes! (Facepalm.)

He jshellagdo (I have arrived)

I've been here now for about a full day. Weird, it seems like I've been here forever…

The flight(s) were long, but really didn't seem to be. (Thanks to Air Canada, I've listened to k-os's new album twice through and--as much as I hate to admit it--watched He's Just Not That Into You and, less embarrassingly, The Reader. And I thank god every day for those Rocket Chips/Crackers they have. Holy fuck.) I flew over two major geographic wonders: Niagara Falls (not that I could actually see it at night) and the Andes (HOLY SHIT). What now, mothafuckaz. It was crazy flying over South America, though. I mean, I've been anticipating this trip since I was 14, and to finally get to actually see these places I've been reading about and imagining for years is a total mindfuck. This shit actually exists, man.

When I first got here I felt like I was in a time warp. For a winter that only gets as cold as 50F during the day, it sure as hell looks like winter. The trees, with their brown, crispy leaves, look dead. The landscape is a depressing gray and sickly brown color. It feels… like winter? People are wearing their blacks and grays, all bundled up. But at least the sun is still warm. It reminds me of the kind of sun when the ice finally starts melting in Montreal and the roads are covered in gray-brown slush.

I didn't expect BsAs to be so, well, BIG. It is every bit as busy, smelly, and overwhelming as New York. But it also feels distinctly Latin American. Mostly because of the poverty. I've never seen anything like it. Ok, I take that back. I've seen poverty, but not quite on this scale. The areas surrounding the Capital General de Buenos Aires (at least the parts along the highway from the airport) look like slums. And they go on for miles. The buildings are dilapidated and a lot don't have roofs. It looks like I'm in the bad section of the Hispanic barrio and can't get out. Within 2 minutes of leaving the airport I witness a guy on a moto just nearly missing being crushed between my car and a bus. Bienvenidos a Buenos Aires, supongo. But eventually we hit the Avenida 9 de julio, which is the widest street in Buenos Aires and is by far the largest street I've ever seen.

The Spanish here is nuts. Completely incomprehensible. And fucking fast.

The one thing that pisses me off most is that I keep thinking in French. FUCK YOU, MONTREAL! This city is fairly bilingual (unofficially) and it's weird that the language other than English is not French. Tabarnac!

Another thing that makes me sad is that, oddly enough, Argentina is not Spain. Go figure. I'm sure I'll come around to the whole cajshe and jshega (calle, llega) jsh jsh jshh shit eventually, the vos thing is pretty cool, but still very foreign. And fuck, everyone speaks at least a bit of English, so my desperate and pathetic attempts to speak to people are generally cut very short by their superior knowledge of my first language. Being that Argentina is not in the EU, the tourists aren't from random-ass European countries that speak a million different languages, so the most used second language is overwhelmingly English. Puta madre.

Planning is something I don't do.

So, I've entered my final 48 hours of being in North America and I still feel, well, the same. I've managed to stay sane by simply not thinking much about my departure. I haven't really said goodbye to anyone; if anything I've said "see you later." That seems more fitting. I ignore the fact that I'll be removed from everyone and everything I've ever known for five full months, it's too abstract of a concept for me to even attempt to grasp. So, see ya later.

I mean, how the fuck do you pack for one of the defining experiences of your life? Better yet, how do you pack for a place where, even on the coldest winter day, the temperature doesn't get much below 14C/60F? Maybe it'll drop to just above 0C at night… that shit ain't winter! Fuck, man. Do I even need a jacket?

Alright, I’ll admit it.

Yes, I am being one of those pretentious study abroad losers and starting a *~*tRaVeLbLoG*~* (omfgz)

 
 

I could rant about the merits/demerits of travel blogging, but fuck it. I don't have to justify myself to you, or even to myself. I'm just doing it. Going Nike on yo ass.

 
 

So suck it.