Import-Export: Clearing Customs

Like most expats, I run my own private black market.  Every time I go home or someone comes to Buenos Aires, there is always a wish list and a Target shopping spree involved.   Everything I need, I can buy in Buenos Aires.  But there are products from the United States that I simply cannot live without. Some items are unavailable or scarce in Argentina (such as contact solution, peanut butter, and decent chewing gum) while others are higher priced and of lower quality here (such as any electronic devise).  (Once, at the Apple store in Buenos Aires, I overheard a salesclerk ask a young girl who wanted to purchase a new iPod, “Do any of your friends or family members fly to the States often?”)

With my mom coming to visit tomorrow, I’ve been compiling a new set of demands. Unfortunately for me but luckily for my mother’s bank account, I’ve been limited this time by the fact that I’m soon leaving for New Zealand.  But past lists have included everything from York Peppermint Patties to underwear from Victoria’s Secret to Oprah’s magazine to running shoes. Thanks to a recent accident involving headphones hitting me in the eye while I was running outside in the rain, I had to place a last minute order for a right contact lens. (Seriously, how does this kind of thing always happen to me?)

For the most part, the goods that I request are strictly for personal consumption, but I have been known to import occasionally on a friend’s behalf.  Always with the understanding that I am not responsible for lost, theft, damage, or confiscation.  Most people don’t travel frequently and buying online is rarely an option, as most places won’t ship abroad and only accept internationally recognized credit cards.  Plus, Argentines are only allowed to bring back $300 worth of items.  If they are caught with more, they are forced to pay a “tax” of 50% of the excess value.  Americans, on the other hand, can bring as much as they want, as long as it’s for individual use (which explains why computers, cameras, and cell phones are delivered without the box).

Successfully clearing customs is neither an art nor a science.  It’s dumb luck.  Every time I cross a border, I am reminded of Mexico’s “Red Light-Green Light” system: if you have “nothing to declare,” you push a button.  If the light is green, you pass without inspection.  If the light is red, you spend the next hour trying to shove everything back into your suitcase.  When I first arrived in Buenos Aires, my mother and I were each carrying three pieces of luggage.  We pushed our baggage cart to the customs checkpoint like two drunken teenagers grocery shopping for midnight snacks.  The officials took one look at us, laughed, and waved us through.  On all subsequent trips, they have x-rayed my checked luggage, but never my carry-on.

There is just no telling when or where you will have a problem.  When I flew to Cartagena, Colombia via Bogotá, my bags were checked through to my final destination, and I never had to clear customs.  When I returned from Bolivia by foot (buses drop you off right before the border), there were dogs sniffing suitcases and officials searching handbags.  Even though I was not engaged in any suspicious behavior, I got nervous.  Before the woman could form her first question, I blurted out in Spanish, “I’m not carrying anything back from Bolivia.” “Nothing?” she asked, eyebrow cocked.  “Nada,” I repeated.  She let me pass without so much as unzipping my backpack.  Of course, I couldn’t help but mutter, “except for six kilos of coke in my bag.” Thankfully, I was well out of earshot.

More than any other country that I have visited, Chile takes livestock and agriculture seriously.  When a girl on my bus, who didn’t speak Spanish and didn’t understand the instructions to throw away food items, was caught with an orange, it was confiscated, and she was searched and made to pay a fine.  I never did understand the obsession with produce and petting farms until I read on the Department of Homeland Security website that “prohibited agricultural items can harbor foreign animal and plant pests and diseases that could seriously damage America’s crops, livestock, pets, and the environment – and a large sector of our country’s economy.”  Honestly, I don’t know how drug smugglers do it.  Having a banana in my bag is enough to make me sweat.

The mail is no safer or easier.  In Buenos Aires, all large packages must be retrieved from the international post office, located near the bus terminal.  The process goes something like this: a delivery notice arrives to your house days after the package arrives, always on a Friday.  You go the post office between the hours of 10am-5pm and draw a ticket with a letter-number combination, like C17. They are on A28.  After waiting to be called, you produce a photo ID and pay a storage fee.  You are then assigned a new, seven-digit number.  You pass to the next room where you sit on a plastic chair similar to those you had in elementary school and wait your turn.  Inevitably, you fail to recognize your number, and have to be summoned by name.  They bring out your package, possibly opening it, possibly not, you sign a form, possibly paying a customs tax, possibly not, and you leave two hours later with a cardboard box full of towels and cereal.

At least in those instances I always received my package.  A birthday present from a friend went missing for months, until one day I found a ransom note under my door.  It turns out that it had been delivered to my neighbor’s father’s house in a different province.  The following year, my mother mailed me a gift but decided against insurance.  Somewhere, there is an Argentine postal worker with a green iPod shuffle.

When you move abroad, you know that you have to sacrifice some of your prized possessions, adapt to local brands, styles, and flavors, and make do with what is available.  But in order to be fully comfortable and feel at home in your host country, it helps to have a few of your favorite things.  So, if you want to smuggle or send items abroad, just remember: whenever possible, ask an American girl to be your mule; remove electronics from their packaging; put contraband in your carry-on; avoid zoos and apple orchards before traveling; pay for a tracking number; act cool, and always carry extra cash.  Most importantly, don’t get too attached to your purchases, because they are likely going home with a customs agent.

Nouveau Riche: Moving Abroad and Movin’ On Up

Buenos Aires, Argentina

A funny thing happened on the way to Argentina: my socioeconomic status changed.  Growing up in the States, I, like most of my friends and classmates, was middle/upper-middle class.  I never wanted for anything, and often got exactly what I wanted, probably because I never asked for too much.  As is common to my social class, I learned that what you have does not define who you are, the value of hard work and earning your own allowance, and to judge the way that other people spend their money.  This middle class doctrine was only compounded by the quasi-Socialist values of the liberal, intellectual college town where I was born and raised.  Imagine my surprise when I moved to South America, and my assortment of iPods, brand name clothes, passport stamps, and Bat Mitzvah savings all catapulted me into the upper class, albeit the lower-upper class.

Because Buenos Aires looks and feels like a major European city, it can be hard to remember that it is the capital of a developing country.  At the beginning of the 20th century, Argentina was one of the world’s ten richest countries, an economic powerhouse with per capita income similar to that of France or Germany.  Despite its strong start, during the past century the country was plagued with financial instability, thanks in large part to a turbulent political situation.  However, during the 1990s, with the peso pegged to the dollar, Argentina had one of the fastest growing economies in the world.  Citizens were once again wealthy at home and abroad.

Then, in 2001, Argentina suffered a disastrous economic crisis.  Convertibility ended and the peso depreciated significantly leading to inflation, as Argentina had no way of quickly compensating for its dependence on inexpensive foreign imports.  By 2002, Buenos Aires was considered one of the cheapest cities in Latin America.  The previous year, it had been the most expensive.  Even though the Argentine economy has rebounded sharply in the past five years, growing at an average rate of 8.5%, prices are rising and people are struggling.  Argentina is like one of those families who continues to keep up appearances after the father gambles away the family fortune, both reluctant to lose its place in high society and confident in its ability to stage a comeback.

Buenos Aires remains a beautiful, even luxurious place, but fewer are those who can afford to take advantage of what it has to offer, and many of them are not from around here.  It used to bother me the way that wealthy Westerners have converted Buenos Aires into the world’s hottest outlet mall, capitalizing on the city’s supply of high style and quality at low cost.  But even if it was not my intention to profit from the misfortune of an entire nation, I, too, have benefited from Argentina’s financial woes.

The quality of my life in Buenos Aires has been far greater than it would have been in the United States or Europe, under similar conditions. I have been able to treat myself to dinners at fancy restaurants, late-night taxis, scuba vacations, apartments in the nicest neighborhoods, and classes at the top dance and yoga studios.  Not all the time or every day, but enough.  And my lifestyle has been financed with nothing more than the money I made as a summer intern at an international consulting firm before moving abroad, and, later, a generous nonprofit salary.

My partners in consumption are either fellow expats or members of the country’s elite. Amazingly, although absolute measures of wealth may vary from country to country, social class stereotypes remain constant.  Having a roommate in Argentina is uncommon, as most young people can’t afford to leave home.  Argentines willing and able to open their doors to a stranger are often those whose parents have purchased them a spacious apartment, among other things, and want to fill the extra space and earn extra spending money.  I have watched such roommates eat Ramen noodles with a silver spoon, because they don’t know how to cook, and I have seen mothers come over to do the dishes and drop off dry cleaning.  On one occasion I heard a roommate chastise a houseguest for leaving clothes to dry in the living room, because, “it makes us look like we’re from the ghetto.”

Finding friends who share the same financial situation, background, and social values, priorities, and interests has been challenging.  I am neither obsessed with appearances nor incapable of caring for myself, and the assumptions can be aggravating.  A group of Argentine girls once confessed to a British friend of mine that they don’t eat fast food because they couldn’t be seen in “places like that.”  Since my friend is from London, they imagined she shared their snobbery, failing to realize that she routinely finishes her Saturday night with a Big Mac and fries.  If I comment on how expensive an item is, the store clerk inevitably reminds me that it’s cheap in dollars.  Leaving me to explain that I don’t have dollars, I earn and spend in pesos.  And people quickly assume that my parents are maintaining me.  Maybe I am well-educated, traveled, and dressed, but I am not a rich kid at heart.  We may dine at the same restaurants, shop at the same stores, and live in the same neighborhood, but we got there in very different ways.  Or did we?

Recently, I have come to the conclusion that I am more spoiled, and more of a brat than I would care to admit.  Thanks to my parents, I have no student loans, and following graduation, I had free room, board, and car insurance, enabling me to save for my trip abroad.  My financial freedom is backed by my parents’ dual income, and the knowledge that my bedroom has not yet been converted into a study.  I am notoriously careless with my possessions: dropping new cell phones in rivers, eating and drinking in front of my computer, and heaping dirty clothes in piles on the floor.  Partly because I am lazy and partly because I know that these things can be replaced.  After all, it’s only money.

Since moving to South America, I have wrestled feelings of guilt; for having so much while so many people have too little and, more importantly, for being ungrateful of what I have and taking my privilege for granted.  Growing up, I never felt relatively deprived, but I never felt relatively wealthy either.  I now understand that much of what for me is an expectation is a luxury to the rest of the world.

These past few months, I have had to cut back in order to stay within my budget.  I walk or take the bus, I cook instead of eat out, and I don’t shop or go to the movies.  I’ve also become domesticated, hanging up and folding, making my bed, and scrubbing the bathroom floor. I’ve learned to take responsibility for and pride in my belongings and to make the most of less.  At some point, I even considered renouncing the pursuit of worldly pleasures.  But, then I realized that having just enough to survive is not just stressful, it’s lonely, because you have nothing left to share.

Fortunately, my reality is not one of subsistence.  While I don’t want it to be one of excess, either, I do want to be able to go out for drinks with friends, have space for houseguests, and treat those people who have taken care of me to dinner. I like being able to do nice things for the people I care about, and that requires resources.  Besides, you are no help to anyone else if all of your time, energy, and money are focused on you and your own survival.   And sure, I don’t need pretty things, but I want them, because there is nothing wrong with having beauty in your life, especially if you appreciate it.  I guess it’s a good thing my mother’s coming to visit me in a week.

Agents of Change: Watching President Obama From Afar

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Domestic politics bore me.  The characters are always the same, the issues unchanging, and the scandals not particularly scandalous (or maybe I’m just desensitized to old white men doing salacious things in public spaces).  Above all, the United States is a functioning democracy that respects human rights and protects and serves its citizens, at least for the most part.  And there just isn’t much room for outrage or outcry.

International politics are where the real action is.  There are megalomaniacal leaders, coup d’états (both failed and successful), weapons of mass destruction (both real and imagined), balances of power, unions and break-ups, protocols and conventions, embargos and treaties, violations and trials.  Foreign affairs are the Mexican telenovela of political science.  Even the name evokes drama.

In college, I loved discussing theory, history, actors, issues, and most importantly, solutions in my Economics and International Studies classes.  Naturally, I imagined that living in South America would only heighten my passion for and awareness of these subjects.  However, since moving abroad, I’ve felt more cut off from the world than ever.

When I was still in school, people helped me to navigate through current events.  Teachers assigned readings, friends and family recited and debated headlines over dinner, and The New York Times and The Economist dictated what was worth knowing and had a monopoly on the facts.  On my own, I found myself drowning in the sea of information.

Suddenly, there were stories about conflicts in countries that I had never heard of between cultures and nations that I didn’t know existed, in languages I was just learning to speak.  I didn’t know which region of the world was worthy of attention, which crisis deserved the most time and energy, and which point of view to trust and respect.  Everything moved so quickly, it was hard to keep up.  Yet at the same time, nothing ever seemed to change or improve.  Frustrated and overwhelmed, I turned inwards, escaping from the ugliness and brutality in the world, and focusing on resolving my own issues and finding inner peace.

Before moving abroad, I at least absorbed important news through osmosis.  But in Argentina, if I don’t actively seek information about current events, I am totally out of the loop. It was during my headline news boycott that Barack Obama entered the scene.  Of course, I heard people about the Obama mania that was sweeping the nation, but I had no notion of the depth or importance of what was happening.  But then my parents started to fight, my mother almost reduced to tears when my father expressed doubts over Obama’s chances of winning.  “Your father is so cynical,” she would sigh when we spoke on the phone.
“I’m not cynical.  I’m realistic,” he would yell in the background.

When my friends began taking time off work to volunteer for the Obama campaign, I decided that this election was worthy of attention.  To get to know The Candidate better, I went online and read a transcript of Barack Obama’s nomination acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention.   I was moved by the power of his words, and saddened that I was missing out on an opportunity to be inspired.  I began to question my own political inaction, and to feel  guilty and selfish for having abandoned the fight, and for not contributing to the cause.  Until a friend helped me understand that disengaging is a strategy for change.

I read that when confronted with an unsatisfactory situation, you have three options: accept it, change it, or remove yourself from it.  More and more of my peers, it seems, are choosing option C: walk away.  We are not apathetic or disinterested.  We are just tired of waiting for the world to change.  Personally, I was bored of hearing the same rhetoric recycled and regurgitated.  I was tired of watching us turn in circles, applying the same ineffective strategies to persistent problems.  And I was disheartened by the fact that people are still killing and dying to protect or get things that aren’t theirs or aren’t necessary.  At some point I said, I don’t want to live under these conditions, not when I have a choice.  So I left home, hoping to create a microcosm that reflects my values, interests, and priorities.

Most of us are no longer looking for a temporary solution.  We demand fundamental changes, but we are bluffing.  There is no “or else.”  There are no ultimatums.  Paradigm shifts cannot be imposed from the top down.  Communities, local and international, are comprised of individuals.  And social values, norms, and institutions reflect, or should reflect, the beliefs, behaviors, and needs of the people. The world will change when a critical mass of individuals change the way they think, act, and live.

If enough people concerned about the environment move to big cities with public transportation or small towns where they can walk or ride a bike, maybe other cities will change in order to retain their residents.  If enough people worried about human rights and social justice refuse to buy products made in sweatshops or under inhumane conditions, maybe other manufacturers will change to appease their customers.  If enough socially conscious CEOs take pay cuts and invest profits in human resources, maybe other companies will change in order to compete for employees.  If enough of the best and brightest concerned with social welfare move to countries that offer universal healthcare, social security, and work-life balance, maybe their own countries will change in order to prevent brain drain.  And if enough politically active youths dedicate their vacation days to presidential campaigns, Barack Obama becomes President of the United States.

President Obama promises change, but he doesn’t necessarily promise to be the one to make those changes.  Let’s be honest, the new President has inherited a mess, and will likely spend the next four years trying to relieve the disaster left by his predecessors. One of the sentiments from Obama’s nomination acceptance speech that most inspired me was reiterated in his inauguration address:

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon  which this nation relies. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility — a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly….  This is the price and the promise of citizenship.

When Barack Obama accepted the presidency, he didn’t just give people hope. He gave them a mandate.  One man cannot manufacture a miracle, but we’ve seen what can happen when the interests of a nation of disaffected individuals align. Perhaps President Obama’s greatest legacy will not be the policies he implements, but the responsibility and authority he delegates to his people.

Just Say No: Letting Good Opportunities Go

Buenos Aires, Argentina

I just found out about an incredible opportunity: STA Travel’s 2009 World Traveler Internship. STA Travel is the world’s largest student and youth travel company.  For obvious reasons, both commercial and social, they actively encourage young people to travel abroad.  The summer internship program is a two-month, all expenses paid trip around the world.  In return, the interns must document their experience through videos, blogs, and photos.  This year, STA is sending two people to Fiji, Australia, India, Kenya, Russia, Germany, Denmark, Estonia, Scotland, and Ireland.  Candidates must be between the ages of 18-26, active, and have a strong desire to travel the world and share their experiences with others; excellent creative, written and verbal skills; an outgoing personality, and basic computer skills.  The first thing I thought when I learned of this program was, “Damn.  Now I’m going to have to apply for this.”

Rarely does such a perfect opportunity come along.  I have no plans for summer ’09 (in fact, after March my dance card is wide open).  Not only do I meet the requirements, I had already been hoping that in the future New Zealand would serve as the jumping off point for a trip around the world.   And if I were to globetrot as an STA Intern, I would be able to develop my writing, photography, video, and journalism skills.   This program was clearly meant for me.

Every one who knows me knows that I am annoyingly and inappropriately competitive. (Except when it comes to bowling.  There’s just no point competing at something when you know there’s no chance of winning.)  In college, my friend and I made another girl cry while playing Sorry! (Although, I’m not sure that was entirely our fault.  Seriously, who actually cries over a board game?)   So, if I am generously sharing this information with potential rivals, it can only mean one thing:  I’ve decided not to apply.

The day I learned of the program, I was so distracted that I couldn’t even concentrate during my guided meditation.  Instead, I took advantage of the time to mentally write the script for my application video.   By the end of the day, my roommate, who studied film production, had agreed to help with the concept and editing, and my friends had been recruited as actors.  Driven to insomnia, I stayed up all night picking out music and pictures to include in the video.   In the morning, after having slept on the idea (albeit fitfully), my enthusiasm started to wane.   I tried to motivate myself: “You might as well apply.  You’ve got nothing to lose and nothing better to do.”  But by afternoon, the pep talk had turned into: “I kind of hope they don’t pick me.” And there’s just no point applying for something that you don’t even want.

I already have a plan A: moving to New Zealand, looking for a job in writing, getting my own apartment, meeting new people, and staying in one place long enough to build momentum and move forward.  After three years of perpetual motion, my goal for 2009 is stillness and stability.  And this trip would be the exact opposite.  Maybe I don’t have anything to lose by applying, but I would have a lot to lose if I were selected, like my sanity.

I’m not done traveling yet.  There are too many places to discover, cultures to explore, foods to taste, dances to learn, sights, sounds, and smells to experience, ways of living and points of views to consider, and stories to hear and tell.  I’m just done backpacking, budgeting, and traveling and living light.  I’ve been doing it since I was nine, and I’m exhausted. When I was drafting a fantasy itinerary for my own trip around the world, I was planning on visiting fewer countries in a year than the program has scheduled for two months.  The internship is a great opportunity, but for someone else.

Let’s be honest. I’m just too old to travel like a rock star.  Nothing has made me come to terms with how not young I am like this program.  In June, I will no longer fall into the under 26 category, which means no more free trips, discounts, or health insurance.  Certainly, 26 is not “old,” but it’s not “youth” either.  At 26, society considers you an adult, capable of fending for yourself and/or too grown up for child’s play.  Hypothetically, if I were to get the internship, I would turn 26 four days into the trip.  Not applying for this internship is like asking that there please be no strippers at your bachelor party – you’re astounded and horrified by your own maturity.  I think I know how Wendy must have felt when decided to leave Never Ever Land.

Truthfully, I’ve been waiting for years to turn 26.  The summer after my first year of college I worked at a country club.  One day, one of the other waitresses began to lament her upcoming birthday and getting old.  She was 22.  The youngest member of the club (in his 30s) was eating lunch at the bar after golfing.  To console her, he confessed, “The best years of my life started when I turned 26.”  His thesis was simple: at 26 he finally had the perfect balance between security and freedom, and responsibility and leisure.  He was still young enough to have fun and experiment, but wise enough to do so without compromising his individuality, health, priorities or values.  He was still learning, but he suffered less and he knew himself well enough to avoid uncomfortable and awkward situations (like agreeing to travel to ten countries in two months with a stranger and document the entire trip).  And most importantly, he had the resources to do things his way.

When I was a kid, I was too scared or stupid or stuck-up or self-loathing to act my age.  I knew that actions had consequences, and I knew what those consequences were.  Too afraid and vulnerable to get in the game, I waited on the sidelines for my turn to play.  And now my age has finally caught up with me.  Maybe I am almost an adult.  But that’s great, because now I can finally enjoy my youth.

Reversed Seasons: Keeping Track of Time in the Southern Hemisphere

Other Side of the World

Argentina may be three hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time but for the past three years, I have been six months behind.  In the Southern Hemisphere, the seasons are reversed, and my internal clock has never been properly reset.

Each year when the weather turns warm, I get depressed.  I have a June birthday, and I begin to stress over if I will celebrate getting older, and if so, where, how, and with whom.  I start to resent having no locker to decorate, I worry that all of my friends will be away at summer camp, and I have terrifying flashbacks of my 18th birthday, when the evening consisted of my brother buying me scratch off lottery tickets (I didn’t win) and watching a rented movie on the couch with my best friend.   At the same time, I get excited because the second and best half of the year is yet to come.  And then I realize that it’s December.

When it starts to get cold, I feel relieved.  One year is about to end and another is about to begin.  I can finally put to rest all of the unfinished business that has been haunting me and embark on new projects and resolutions.  Besides, months of good cheer, food, and gifts are on their way.  And then I realize that it’s June.

How am I possibly supposed to keep track of time when all of my external cues are upside down?  I still can’t get my head around listening to my parents talk about losing power in an ice storm while I am sitting in the dark drinking ice water to keep cool.  And the seasons aren’t the only think I’ve had difficulty adjusting to since crossing the equator and changing time zones.  As it turns out, within the circadian rhythm there is room for variation.

In Argentina, people leave the office at the hour considered by most Americans to be dinnertime, and eat dinner between 9-11pm (past my parent’s bedtime).  On Sunday mornings when my Argentine friends complain of being tired and I ask what time they went to bed the night before they reply, “Early.  Like 4am.” In the States, if an event is planned for 6-8pm, people arrive dutifully at 6pm and make their way to the door at exactly 8pm.  In Argentina, 6-8pm is the period of time during which it is acceptable to arrive.  The event starts at 8:01pm and ends when the last person leaves.  In the States, people respect each other’s time.  In Argentina, people respect each other’s rhythm.  Time is definitely relative, at least culturally.

Now that I think about it, I’ve never had a fixed concept of time.  When I was a child, a year revolved around my birthday, because the universe revolved around me.  While I was a student, the year only had nine months.  According to my agenda, the year started mid-September and ended mid-June.  July and August went on sabbatical.  Since graduating from college, I have measured time using a series of milestones: an anniversary in Argentina, a trip home, the day I began my job, the day I quit my job, a first date, the last time I had sex.  A year doesn’t always have 365 days, and sometimes I have more than one year happening simultaneously.  Because for me, a “year” is just a convenient way of saying “time between important moments.”

The calendar is a useful tool for coordinating the logistics of your life.  Like making sure you pay your taxes on time, or that you don’t go to work on Saturday, or that you take your sweaters out of storage, or that you don’t forget to call your friend on her birthday, even if it is in the middle of the summer.  But the calendar is pretty useless when it comes to assessing personal growth and development.  We all have our own way of calculating a year, and our own rate of emotional, mental, and biological maturation.  Yet we obsess over the numbers, measuring our progress, determining what we should be doing right now, and judging where we should be in our life by how many 24-hour days we have been alive.

Clock time is just a guideline.  It is not a rule or a law.  So, if December 31 doesn’t feel like the right time to stop what you’re doing, or if January 1 doesn’t feel like the right time to start something new, don’t worry about.  They are just two more days.  Personally, my new year is going to start on February 25, when I board a plane to New Zealand.

We seem to think that life is a choreographed routine, and that we’re all supposed to be dancing the same steps to the same music.  Like pre-schoolers at our first ballet recital, we spend the entire performance staring at our feet or looking around at our peers to make sure that we are on beat.  But each of us has our own unique soundtrack. We can’t pick the play list.  All we can do is dance. Or in the words of Prince, “party like it’s 1999.”

And with that said, Happy New Year!

What I Did On My Christmas Vacation: Spending the Holidays in Chaco

Chaco, Argentina

“Welcome to Saénz Peña Beach,” said my friend the first time we pulled into the driveway of her home in Northeastern Argentina.   My first year abroad, I spent both Christmas and New Year’s Eve in Buenos Aires.  I was living with a French girl at the time.  A few of her friends were visiting from Paris, and on Christmas Eve we ate homemade empanadas and then stood on the street corner for over an hour waiting for a taxi.  (In Argentina, Santa Claus doesn’t come while you’re sleeping.  He comes while you’re out partying.)

New Year’s Eve was a total disaster, at least the part of it that I can remember.  A big group of us went to the beach town of Pinamar to ring in 2006 at the coast.  We all ended up fighting, though no one can recall why.  To ease the process of forgiving and forgetting, we drank.  Mostly a cocktail of $5 a bottle red wine, diet coke, and champagne from a box.  I threw up for the first time since I was nine years old and passed out in the car.  The next thing I knew, it was 6am and my friend was frantically knocking on the window, reviving me from an alcohol-induced coma just in time to see the sun rise over the ocean.  I was too hung over to take the bus home.  Fortunately, the following year my friend offered me her home for the holidays, promising me a family and someone to hold my hair back.

Presidencia Roque Saénz Peña, the second largest city in the province of Chaco and the cotton capital of Argentina, is not exactly your dream vacation destination.  Every December when I tell people that I am going to Chaco they stare at me in disbelief. “Mucho calor y mucha pobreza,” they always say. Really hot and really poor, which is not an inaccurate description.

Chaco has a population of roughly one million people, and at least as many stray dogs.  According to “Chaco, donde la pobreza es más pobre” published in Página/12 in May 2008, the INDEC (National Institute of Statistics and Census) calculates that 40% of Chaco’s inhabitants live below the poverty line.  The INDEC prices the basket of common household goods used to set the poverty level at $982 pesos ($290USD).  However, the actual price is nearly $1400 pesos ($410USD), making the percentage of Chaco’s population living in poverty closer to 55%.

Homes in Saénz Peña resemble found object art, with tin roofs, brick walls, wooden doors, and rusted car part lawn ornaments.  Horse-drawn carts are a common form of transportation.  There are no movie theaters or shopping malls, and the annual highlight is the National Cotton Festival.  Last year, the big news was the paving one of the main avenues.

In the summer, it is already 80°F at 9am, with temperatures steadily rising to 100°F-105°F by early afternoon.  It’s no wonder that the siesta is observed religiously.  Even the accent here is distinct. People place an “h” before vowels, pronouncing my name “Hey-mee.” The difference between Saénz Peña and Buenos Aires is so striking that it’s hard to believe they share the same parents.

As in most places that suffer extreme poverty, there is also extreme wealth in Chaco.  My friend’s family owns a supermarket, and a lot of land where they grow sunflowers and raise cattle. They live in a beautiful two-story home, complete with air conditioning, a patio, and a car in the garage.  Saénz Peña may be humble, but my time in Chaco is nothing short of indulgent.

Spending the holidays in Chaco is like staying over at your best friend’s house where you get to eat all of the sugary cereal that you aren’t allowed to have at home because your parents only buy Grape Nuts. We sleep until noon on beds made up with pink sheets, read fashion magazines, and give ourselves manicures with my friend’s preteen cousins.  We watch movies while eating cookies out of the bag, and at night, we window shop at the finest stores with my friend’s mother and sister.  Bathing is an event, followed by a ceremonial application of creams, lotions, and oils.  We get dressed up, even though we have nowhere to go.

Sometimes our friend Pablo appears at 3am, throwing rocks at our window and beckoning us outside.  We sneak out and take his motorcycle down to the highway to see Saénz Peña’s first and only transvestite prostitute.  Last year on New Year’s Eve we ended up at the cemetery at 8am, and on the way home, I almost drove us into a ditch.

But mostly when we do venture outdoors it is for one thing only: to drive around in circles in her sister’s car, listening to music and the latest gossip.  Like how one of the employees is stealing from the supermarket, or how my friend’s brother’s ex-girlfriend is now pregnant.  “That should be my grandchild,” laments their mother with a hearty laugh, but only half-joking.

If I’m lucky, I get to meet one of these soap opera stars.  My personal favorite is La Tía Rosita.  Last Christmas, she regaled us with stories of the Spanish octogenarian who wanted to fly her to Madrid.  “Chicaaas” she purred before informing us that she had turned down the invitation after learning that he had already had two heart attacks. Then there is Tatiana, who lost her son, my friend’s high school sweetheart, to cancer a few years ago.  During the holidays she becomes Chaco’s version of Betty Crocker, if Betty Crocker cooked exclusively with ham and cheese, and specialized in fried things.  Her buckets of homemade mayonnaise, roasted pork with pineapple, and potato salad are delivered by the Sobrino Paraguayo, the son her brother fathered and abandoned and who now lives with Tatiana.  To demonstrate his gratitude for her hospitality, her nephew has become her errand boy.  I have a special place in my heart for him, as I’m somewhat of a Sobrino Paraguayo myself.

This year, I emerged from the cocoon. So much rest was making me restless and the air conditioning was giving me a headache.  Before my friend even wakes up, I will have gone for a run, ate breakfast, showered, and finished writing this essay.  Yesterday, I went downstairs to find her father waiting to surprise me with a shiny red bike.  I left the ipod at home, opting to be entertained by the sound of dogs barking, roosters crowing, and cumbia playing, and the sight of neighbors drinking mate on the sidewalk and old men selling watermelons by the side of the road.  Visiting Chaco is like watching an old black and white movie, where the story is character and dialogue driven, and completely devoid of special effects.

Safely back at home, I could imagine everyone talking about La Gringa who uses a bike for exercise, reads books, meditates daily, and is a vegetarian.  “I heard she even thinks pork is meat,” they would whisper as I pass. But they accept me exactly the way I am because I make their lives more interesting, and because you can’t choose your family, even when it’s adopted.

Three-Year Ego Boost: Sharing the Streets with Argentine Men

Buenos Aires, Argentina

6:45am.  Downtown.  I am walking to my first English class of the day.  The dark circles under my eyes match the color of my over-sized winter jacket, and nearly reach the scarf tied around my neck.  The only other person on the street at this hour is a businessman.  Wind has blown my hair over my reddened face, but he is unmistakable by his suit and the cell phone pressed to his ear.  As he passes he leans in, interrupting his early morning conversation to tell me, “Qué linda que sos.”  You’re beautiful.  I know how to take a compliment, but that was clearly bullshit.

Catcalling is a national pastime in Argentina.  I studied abroad in Spain and traveled through Italy, so Buenos Aires was not my first encounter with unsolicited comments and hissing. And of course, catcalling exists in the United States.  But still, the consistency and pervasiveness of it here never ceases to amaze me. You cannot walk down the street without someone literally congratulating you on how pretty you are.  (I am always tempted to tell them to direct all feedback to my parents, but as a rule I don’t dignify such behavior with a response.)  I complained about this to an English acquaintance living in France. She eyed me with jealous contempt and remarked, “Basically what you’re saying is that you’ve had a three-year ego boost.”

Personally, I don’t find catcalls demeaning, degrading, or threatening, but I certainly don’t find them flattering.  How can it possibly make you feel special when someone says the exact same thing to every single woman, regardless of shape, size, age, place, or time?  The men here lack creativity, criteria, and sincerity. Hitting on women is a reflex so deeply ingrained in their machismo culture that it has become an unconscious reaction.  I’m not sure that the businessman who talked to me was even aware of doing so.

Rarely has a catcall provoked a positive reaction.  There was one afternoon while I was running.  I was feeling particularly not in shape when a guy yelled, “No te hace falta ese ejercicio.”  You don’t need to exercise.  On another occasion, I was walking down the street, wearing a new hat.  I liked the hat but worried it made me look like a back-up dancer from a Paula Abdul video.  An old man, stooped over, shuffling down the sidewalk stopped and said, “Qué bien que te queda esa gorrita.”  That hat looks great on you.  I actually responded, “thanks!”

For the most part, I find the uninvited attention obnoxious, invasive, and disrespectful.  What bothers me most is that it robs me of my anonymity.  One of the great things about living in a big city is that you can get lost in the crowd.  You may be surrounded by thousands of people, but you get the whole city to yourself.  In Buenos Aires, people audibly notice you on every street corner.  There is no regard or respect for privacy or personal boundaries.  Even if men have the genuine intention of complimenting you, they don’t realize that unsolicited praise from a stranger is often unwelcome.

As it so happens, becoming invisible is easy.  I just have to go the United States.  The first time I returned home after moving to Argentina, I was culture-shocked by how no one even looked at me in that way, let alone said anything.  In my hometown, the only people who shout at you on the street are construction workers, and that’s to warn you to watch your step.

I didn’t realized how accustomed I had grown to being noticed.  That’s not to say that I liked it, just that I had come to expect it.  Like a high-pitched noise that you don’t hear until it stops, and that you kind of miss when it’s gone.  At first, I worried that something had happened during the flight.  But then I realized that while a ten-hour plane ride looks good on no one, it’s hardly enough to turn you ugly.  It’s not me, I decided. It’s them.

Don’t ask me how, but we have housebroken American men. We have taught them exactly when and where it is appropriate to approach women as members of the opposite sex.  For example, in a bar, club, or party, totally acceptable.  When we look especially good, acceptable.  When we find you attractive, acceptable.  In all other circumstances, we are to be regarded as equals. We have trained American men not to see us as women.

Someone once told me that we are given gifts and talents to share them with others. If you have an incredible voice, it’s not so that you can sing in the shower.  If you are an amazing artist, it’s not so that you can paint your garage.  And if you are attractive, it’s not so that you can stare at your reflection. We don’t need our eyes, mouths, or bodies to be pretty, we just need them to function.  So, if you are beautiful, which we all are in our own way, it’s not for your own benefit. And if someone genuinely recognizes your physical beauty, or is perceptive enough to see your inner beauty, they should be able to express their appreciation.

Neither country has it right.  Argentine men are too hot, and American men are too cold.  I want men to view me as a woman, but first and foremost to respect me as a person.  I want them to feel comfortable talking to me, but to think about my feelings before they speak. I don’t want a stranger shouting his admiration at me from a distance of 20 feet, but I also don’t want him to be afraid to smile.

I am an independent, intelligent, ambitious, talented individual, and I expect to be treated as such.  But I am also a young, attractive woman, and I expect to be treated as such. Women don’t want to be objectified. But let’s be honest, we are objects of beauty.

Prize Winning Pumpkin: Celebrating American Culture Abroad

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Today, I stumbled upon a Japanese Culture Festival at the     Jardín Japonés.  Organized by the Fundación Cultural Argentino Japonesa, the agenda included a food tasting and a judo exhibition, both of which I missed.  Luckily, I arrived just in time for a performance by Medetaiko, a Japanese drum ensemble.

Taiko, according to Google, refers to both a kind of drum and a style of ensemble drumming which combines traditional Japanese percussion with karate movements.  Performed in customary dress, taiko is a high-energy mix of music, dance, and martial arts, and it’s fabulous. Taiko drums have been in use for some 2000 years, but Taiko as it is performed today dates back only to the 1950s.  In the 1980s, the Japanese government began sponsoring taiko groups as a way to preserve and promote Japanese culture both at home and abroad.  There are now approximately 5,000 taiko groups in Japan.

As I sat there watching Japanese drumming in Argentina, I thought about how wonderful it is that Japanese immigrants have been able to maintain their cultural identity and share their traditions with both their children and their host country.  And I began to wonder what an American Cultural Festival would like:

12pm: Beauty Pageant
1pm: How to Build the World’s Largest Ball of Yarn
2pm: Thomas Kinkade Cross Stitch Workshop
3pm: Pie Eating Contest

Large immigrant groups tend to inspire the foundation of organizations dedicated to improving cross-cultural relations, and to the preservation, teaching, and diffusion of the language, customs, and rites of the migrant community.  I guess that because Americans tend not to emigrate, you don’t see a lot of American Cultural Societies in foreign countries.

Come to think of it, even though we don’t send people abroad, American language, culture, and commerce is so pervasive worldwide that I’m not sure that such an association would be necessary.  Want to teach your expat children about American society?  Turn on the T.V.  Want them to learn to speak English?  Send them to any local school.  Want to introduce them to American goods and products?  Look for the nearest Walmart. Still, for those of us who do live, work, or raise families abroad, it would be nice to have a building shaped like a skyscraper where we could play baseball, listen to hip-hop music, and eat a decent sandwich.

Of course, it’s wonderful that America does not produce many refugees or political exiles, and that people born in the United States tend to feel comfortable and welcome right where they are.  But the downside to this is that we are not actively promoting awareness or understanding of our culture abroad, nor are we mingling with or learning from other peoples.  If you ask me, a few more American cross-cultural associations in other countries might not be a bad thing.

Quite honestly, I’m saddened by the idea that everything people know about American culture, they learned from Friends.  And I’m even sadder to admit that if I were open an American Cultural Society abroad, I’m not sure what services and activities it would offer, what events it would organize, or what traditions it would celebrate.

Any ideas?

Please, May I Have a Little Less?: America’s Consumer Culture

Peanut butter and jelly on a pumpkin bagel

I was recently in the States for the first time in almost a year. Now, a year may be long enough for my parents to redo the landscaping, but it is hardly long enough for me to feel like a stranger in my own home. Yet this trip found me in tears in the snack food aisle.

“Do I want barbeque or sour cream and onion? Baked or fried? Do I even like potato chips?” What had started as a simple trip to the supermarket had turned into an identity crisis. Aisles later, I realized that my problem wasn’t that I couldn’t pick a flavor, it was that I couldn’t find the right product. Back to my senses, I returned the box of chocolate chip cookie cereal to the shelf, and as I left the store empty handed I wondered: if America is the land of plenty, why doesn’t it have anything to offer me?

Groceries come in a wide range of shapes, sizes, and colors but they all belong to the same category: artificial. I don’t want to microwave it or just add water. While I appreciate convenience and efficiency, I prefer to have the time, energy, and materials to cook it myself. But Americans don’t create, they consume. This cultural phenomenon, reflected in the supermarket, was the true cause of my culture shock.

Americans, it seems to me, are in a never-ending pursuit of products, because “stuff” has become synonymous with happiness. Money dictates moods. People are defined by what they have and they are haunted by what they have not. Because new and improved products constantly enter the market, there is a lingering sense of dissatisfaction and relative deprivation.

Perhaps worst of all, the availability and accessibility of top end consumer goods has caused Americans to lose perspective and to miscalculate their own quality of life. Some of the wealthiest people in the world believe themselves to be poor. Clothes purchased at Target are often better than those found at top stores in Argentina. Luxury has become the new basic. Yet Americans go into credit card debt over Louis Vuitton purses.

My preferences and priorities are somewhat simpler. This is not to say that I don’t like pretty things or that I don’t miss certain products from the States. Garbage disposals, tampons with applicators, and pumpkin bagels all spring to mind. However, I am not defined or motivated by them. And for me, the cost of living in a society that offers those products is too high. I don’t want to trade my interests, passions, talents, and health for purchasing power. Houses, cars, clothes, and iPhones are not worth my soul.

Personally, I would rather pay less and receive less. There are even times when I would be willing to pay the same and receive less. One night while in the States, I went to the mall to treat myself to frozen yogurt. The boy behind the counter grabbed what looked to be a venti frappuccino cup stolen from the neighboring Starbucks. “Is that really the smallest size there is?” I asked in disbelief. He assured me that it was. Before he had finished filling the cup, I shouted to him in desperation, “That’s enough!” I wanted dessert, not Thanksgiving dinner. In the end, I had to throw most of it away anyways.

25% more free is wasted on me. I don’t have the space to store it and I can’t possibly consume it before it goes bad. What I want is moderation. But that option is now obsolete.

Finding balance in the States is it not impossible. But when the pervasive culture is to always strive for more, you have to fight if you want less. Or if not fight, at the very least defend. You have to defend your lifestyle from the judgment of others and from the temptation to keep up with the Jone’s.

When I explain to people that I would rather enjoy my life now than spend it collecting objects, they look at me like I’m lazy, crazy, or a Socialist. If you ask me, lazy is letting a machine do all the work for you. And crazy is starting to save for retirement the day you graduate from college, saddling yourself with debts and loans so that you can buy things that you can’t afford, wasting your days inside chained to a desk, and looking for fulfillment in material possessions.

Ultimately, this is not about ideology. I’m not trying to start a revolution. And I don’t think that there is anything inherently wrong with having expensive tastes. I just don’t want to live in a place where comfort kills creativity, where salvation is found in shopping, and where fear of financial insecurity in the future prevents people from living the present. Personally, I don’t want to have to be rich to be happy.

For more on the paradox of choice, check out Barry Schwartz’s Ted Talk