Despedida: Saying Good-bye to Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires, Argentina

I thought that I could get away without having a despedida. As much as I like being the center of attention, I don’t like to be the reason for or the hostess of an event, especially when the event is saying good-bye to my best friends.  I just couldn’t handle the concept of everyone getting together to talk about how much we’re going to miss each other.

When one of my friends decided to celebrate her birthday on Saturday night, I was relieved. She offered me the night first, but I liked the idea of being able to see my friends without ever having to actually acknowledge that I’m leaving.  I may not be the one getting married, but I was hoping to run off to New Zealand and elope without anyone noticing.  Besides, I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be able to plan an evening more entertaining than Korean karaoke (you even get your own private room and machine).  Unfortunately, my plan backfired.

Before I had even sung my first Britney Spears number, my friends were already asking when we were going to get together again.  As I explained to them that I, like most women when they turn 30, wasn’t planning on dignifying my departure with a party, they nodded sympathetically before discussing amongst themselves potential places, times, and activities.   By the end of the night, nothing had been confirmed, except my sneaking suspicion that friends don’t let friends leave the country without saying good-bye.

Sunday afternoon, the designated social coordinator of the group called to ask if I had made up my mind about the despedida.  Of course I wanted to see everyone again, but I couldn’t decide which would be more depressing: spending time with my friends “one last time” or not.  Not to mention the fact that I couldn’t think of a good pretext for seven people hanging out on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

In the end, my friend convinced me that no planning was necessary, and gave me a moving speech about needing to give my closest friends the opportunity to say good-bye, as if I had just died and was trying to decide whether or not to have a funeral for myself.  I sent an email at the last minute, inviting everyone to my friend’s apartment that afternoon.  Hours later, we were eating homemade avocado dip and chocotorta, gossiping about the previous night, playing Apples to Apples, and making each other laugh.  The truth is that I was going to be sad no matter what, but it’s far better to be sad and in good company than sad and alone.

I think that what made my despedida so nice is that it was not anything out of the ordinary.  It was just another reminder of how wonderful it is to belong to a group of people who love each other, especially one that doesn’t need an itinerary to have a good time.  I’m glad that we had the chance to make one last memory in Buenos Aires, because I don’t know when, if ever, such a moment will arise again.

I’m great at being gone, but I’m terrible at good-byes.  I get overly sentimental, wanting to do, see, touch, and taste everything one last time because I’m convinced that good-bye is forever. But this time, I know that Buenos Aires isn’t going anywhere, and neither are the memories or friendships that I made here.  However, even though I will maintain my relationships and likely return to Argentina in the future, even if just for a visit, it will never again be exactly as it is now.

I think that part of what makes leaving Argentina so hard is that I’m not just saying good-bye to friends or a city.  I’m saying good-bye to an era.  When my friends came over to meet my mother, we took a Buenos Aires class picture. Staring at that photo later, I realized that three people were already missing – they left Argentina earlier in the year – and that nearly everyone else had plans to be gone within the next year or two.

Someone once told me that life is like a spiral – we go around in ever expanding concentric circles, passing by the same points, but always at a different point in our lives.  Of course, different can be just as good or better, but when you like things the way that they are, it can be hard to let go.  So, that’s why I don’t want to do anything special to commemorate my last few days in Buenos Aires. I prefer to carry on with business as usual, doing the things that have characterized and defined my life for the past three years, like run in the park, go shopping with friends, and write, because pretty soon, everything will change.  I may be ready to move on, but I’m still sad for what I’m leaving behind (including all of the clothes that didn’t fit in my suitcase).  In fact, I have to get going.  My friend is waiting for me so we can order take-out, eat dinner on her balcony, and talk about the guy she’s dating.

Operation 20/20: Replacing a Missing Contact Lens

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Why does this type of thing always happen to me?  The day my mother was scheduled to fly to Buenos Aires, I awoke to find the sky a shade of blue closer to navy than periwinkle.  Racing the clock, I hurried to get in a run before the weather turned.  But I was too late.  Already halfway through my workout when the rain began to fall, I was doomed to return home wet instead of merely sweaty.  Audibly cursing the dark clouds overhead, I began to battle with my headphones, which kept falling out.  Frustrated, I reached up and violently yanked them out of my ears.

To punish me for defying Mother Nature, my headphones instantaneously transformed into nunchucks, hitting me in the right eye and knocking out my contact lens.  I stopped in my tracks.  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” I shouted.  Searching for a clear disc of plastic the size of a nickel in the mud when it’s raining is like, well, searching for a clear disc of plastic the size of a nickel in the mud when it’s raining, especially when it tends to bounce like a ping pong ball.  Still, I had to try, because instead of discardable soft contact lenses, I wear hard lenses designed and priced to last for years. “I certainly hope you find this funny,” I shouted while giving the heavens the evil one-eye.

Squatting, with my hand clasped over my useless eye, I set out on a search and rescue mission for the poor contact lens in distress, all the while trying to watch my step.  I looked like a soggy duck pirate walking a tightrope.  Needless to say, my mission was impossible.  I’m a big believer in all of the adages: “Everything happens for a reason,” “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” “Every cloud has a silver lining,” etc.  But some things just suck.  Period.

I called my mother in Michigan just before she left for the airport, and she phoned the family eye doctor to see if they had a lens in stock.  They didn’t.  All lenses are custom made.  In a display of heroic parenting, my mother ordered a lens, paying the lab extra to rush the order, and my dad covered the cost overnight shipping.  Turns out that in the world of international postal service, “overnight” actually means within 2-5 business days.

When I returned from Iguazú Falls, I found a package slip waiting for me.  This would have been good news, except that I was expecting the actual package to be delivered to my door.   Attached to the FedEx invoice was a ransom letter – Argentine customs was holding my contact lens hostage, and if I ever wanted to see it again, I had to bring a considerable amount of cash to the Ezeiza Airport.

Getting my contact lens was about as easy as assembling a desk with a Russian instruction manual.  The cheapest way to get to the airport is to take a shuttle, which departs from Manuel Tienda León’s private terminal near the bus station. Customs is located at the airport, in Terminal C.  But the bus driver instructed me to get off at the first stop, which was Terminal A.  I may not be an expert on the layout of the airport, but I know a little something about the alphabet.  Instead, I descended at Terminal B, only because there didn’t seem to be any signs indicating the existence of Terminal C.

Inside the airport, a security guard ushered me to the tax-free counter, where a woman kindly informed me, “Oh honey, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place.  Did you see the windmill outside at the end of the long, white brick wall? Go past that.” And then, as an afterthought, she added, “It’s raining, isn’t it?”  I set off to follow the white brick wall.  After a series of twists and turns, I passed a gate and crossed a bridge where I had to lull a troll to sleep by playing a magic flute I arrived at the customs office.  It was closed for lunch.

When the office finally reopened, I began to dance the “package pickup tango.”  First, I went to Office 2, where a customs agent photocopied my passport before sending me to Office 1 for a stamp.  Then I made my way to Office 3 where, after knocking softly two times, I was allowed to enter, given a form, and escorted back to Office 2.  An old man searched for my package, opened it, showed me my contact lens, put the lens back in the package, resealed it with yellow tape, and stored it on the shelf.  Then it was back to Office 2 for a quick signature, and on to Office 1 where I paid both a storage fee and a fee for having a package that weighed less than 10 grams.  I shuffled over to Office 3 for the pure amusement of the staff, and then headed to Office 1 for the final step.  “Is that it?” I asked when I had my package in hand, both hopeful and skeptical.
“Yep, that’s it.” came the reply from the old man, followed by my sigh of relief.
“Except that you need to clear customs on your way out.”
“Excuse me?”
Before I could leave, I had to know.  “Why was my package held at customs?” I inquired.
“Because,” he explained, “all packages are held at customs.”

Five hours later, I was back at home, soaking my new contact lens in conditioning solution.  Now that I can see out of both eyes again, I just have one question: Does anyone know the name of a specialist in laser eye surgery?

Coming Up On Your Left: Entertaining Guests

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Hosting is as much a part of living abroad as is learning a new language.  Yet, in all the time that I have lived in Buenos Aires, I have had virtually no visitors (except my own mother). I did get to see a few friends and acquaintances when they passed through town.  But I was not the motivation for those trips, just a bonus.

My two worlds have never truly collided, and most of my friends and family from the States have never interacted with my host country or actively participated in the “Argentine years.” My life at home and abroad were both present during the past three years, but they almost never appear together in the same memory. Pictures allow people on both sides of the equator to put faces with names, but they cannot take the place of actually experiencing a place en vivo y en directo.

Besides, guests give you an excuse to act like a tourist in your own city.  You get to do all of the things that life, work, and pride don’t normally permit you to do – visit museums, drink at Irish pubs, rent paddle boats in the park, carry a map, take pictures.  But maybe I’m just idealizing and romanticizing what it’s like to have visitors.

I have enough friends who practically run hostels to know that being a host is hard work.  Your guests may be on vacation, but you, typically, are not, and differences in time, energy, and budget can make it hard to keep up.  After a few days, you find yourself shoving a guidebook in your guests’ hands and agreeing to meet them for coffee after work.   Having nonstop guests is especially difficult right after you arrive.  Establishing a routine is impossible if every few weeks, visitors come and upset it, and developing new relationships is challenging when you’re busy entertaining old ones.

There is also the pressure and the guilt you feel if your guests are uncomfortable or not having a good time.  In your mind, the city is a reflection of you, and you are responsible for all that happens there.  You want your loved ones to like where you live in the way that you want them to like your boyfriend. If your visitors so much as observe that it would be nice if the sidewalks didn’t have potholes, you get defensive. No one is allowed to talk badly about your city, except you.

Moonlighting as a tour guide/babysitter is worth it in order to spend quality time with close friends and family.  But what about when your visitors are slightly more distant?  There is always some kid you shared a desk with in fourth grade who heard from your parents that you are living abroad and wonders if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to stay with you for a few days.  Of course, you can’t remember if you even like this person.  But the “travelers’ code” states that if you have the space, you have to put them up.  That’s just what you do.  And most of the time, it’s what you want to do.  Just remember, don’t let other people’s vacations get in the way of your own life.

Luckily, my mother was easy.  My mom has been coming to Argentina since before I could locate it on a map.  This was her seventh trip to Buenos Aires, which means that she’s already done and seen it all. The only things on her list of “musts” were: eat empanadas, get together with friends, and spend time with her daughter.  Check. We actually made it a point to get out of town, spending a few days at the incredible Iguazú Falls. The only problem was that since my mother had no agenda of her own, I was left to fill in the gaps in our itinerary.  And as I tried to come up with ideas of fun and novel things for us to do together, I was forced to ask myself: “What the hell am I doing here?”

The hardest part for me about having visitors is that it forces me to confront the fact that I’m just not that into Buenos Aires.  I’m always excited when people tell me that they are coming to visit or stay for a few months, because I know that they are going to love it here.  Most people do.  But they are almost always meat eating, Malbec-drinking, Tango-dancing, Latino-loving, party animals.  And I’m not.  I am a vegetarian, I prefer white wine, Tango bores me, most Argentine guys are not exactly my type, and I will never understand the logic behind starting your night at 2am.  And while the city’s cultural offerings are nice, they are not exactly worth renewing your passport for. This is not to say that Buenos Aires isn’t charming, beautiful or worth visiting.  But in my case, it doesn’t offer me enough to compensate for the noise pollution, exhaust fumes, catcalls, inefficiency, broken sidewalks, and bureaucracy.

So, how did I end up here, and for so long?  Because at first, I didn’t know any better, and honestly, I didn’t care.  Before moving to Argentina, I didn’t do much research or pay attention to the details, because all I wanted was different and distance.  And I certainly got both of those things.  Buenos Aires was a place where I could explore, experiment, resolve, and grow.  It was a place where I could live well.  And it was a place where I could make some of the best friends I’ve ever had.  But it’s not a place where I see myself long-term, because the quality of your life is inextricably influenced by the city where you live.

When I was applying to colleges, my parents (half) joked that I could go to any school I wanted, as long as it was in a place that they would want to visit.  And I think that a good rule to follow is: if are going to move abroad, and take on all of the associated expenses, you should pick a city that you personally would want to visit.  Otherwise, you won’t last long.  That’s why I’m optimistic about New Zealand, a country famous for it’s great outdoors, extreme sports, sheep, and Sauvignon Blanc.  And if any of that sounds appealing to you, you’re welcome to crash on my couch, just as soon as I have one.

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?

Bank Crisis: How My Commitment Issues Almost Cost Me My Account

Buenos Aires, Argentina

On Thursdays, I grocery shop at Carrefour.  If you pay with a debit card from Banco Santander Río you get 20% off your entire purchase.  Personally, I prefer to go to the supermarket more than once a week, but I also like savings.  Last week, when I was just moments away from buying a cart full of groceries, my phone rang.  “Hi, Amy?  This is Carla from Santander Río.”  How did she know?

Opening a bank account in Buenos Aires was easy.  All I needed were good intentions and a valid form of identification (it also helped to have an employer guarantee that large sums of money would be deposited into my account every month).  While Santander Río allows you to use a passport to open an account, for security reasons, you then have three months to present a Documento Nacional de Identidad (DNI), the Argentine National Identity Card.  Apparently, the Central Bank uses the DNI to verify the identity of account holders in order to protect against fraud and money laundering.  (Note: all plans to open a casino in Buenos Aires have been suspended until further notice.)

Carla was calling to ask if I had a DNI, which I don’t.  The bank was giving me one month to present a DNI or they would close my account.  In the year and a half since I opened my account, this was the first time that I had been officially notified of this policy.  (Unofficially, I learned of the policy when my friend was forced to close her account for the same reason.  She later had nearly $1500 USD in cash stolen from her apartment.) Reluctant to start stashing money under my mattress or return to paying full price for movie tickets, I threw a fit.   In addition to the bad customer service, what bothered me about the situation is that it is impossible to get a DNI in 30 days.  In fact, it is nearly impossible to get one, period.

To get a DNI, you have to wait in line to request an appointment to start the application process.  When your day finally arrives, 3-6 months later, you have to present an original, notarized, translated Birth Certificate, a Certification of Domicile, two passport size photos, and a visa valid for at least one year.  (Don’t even get me started on applying for a visa.)  Finally, if everything goes well and there are no public workers’ strikes, you receive your DNI 1-3 months later. On second thought, I should thank the bank for letting me get away with not having a DNI for so long.

After I explained this to Carla, she agreed that if I were to begin the process, the bank would allow me to keep my account.  I assured Carla that I would do just that, but that I would need at least 1-3 months to get all of my documents ready.  She consented and a banking crisis was averted.

I lied. I have no intentions of applying for a DNI. Bureaucracy aside, the reason why I never got my DNI, and never will, is because I don’t plan to stay here much longer. Never, not once, in the past three years did I predict that I would be here this long.  It was always, “three more months,” or “if nothing changes.” But my alleged departure date always came and went with me still firmly planted in Buenos Aires, at least physically.  Mentally I still had one foot out the door.

My biggest mistake and regret since moving to Argentina is that I never fully committed to being here regardless of for how long.  The belief that my time abroad had an expiration date informed decisions about everything from relationships to real estate to employment to travel. My best guess about what was going to happen in the future dictated how I felt about what was actually happening in the present.  And the worst part is that my best guess wasn’t even an educated one.

Attending to the practical aspects of life often requires keeping one eye on the future, especially if you have limited resources and need to budget.  And if you have a long-term goal, occasionally looking ahead keeps you on the right track.  But unless you are a stockbroker or a political pundit during election time, constantly speculating on the future does nothing but rob you of the present.  Which is unfortunate, because when you think about it the present moment is all we ever really have.

I should have lived my life here as if it was going to last forever. I should have invested time, money, and energy into what would have made me the most happy, comfortable, and fulfilled at that particular moment. I should have made the most of the time that I did have, rather than waiting anxiously for it to come to an end. Maybe a DNI wasn’t necessary in any practical sense (or at least it wasn’t until Carla called).  But psychologically, it would have changed my experience.  Instead, I always saw this as temporary, and ultimately, it became a self-fulfilled prophecy.

In March, I am leaving Buenos Aires to move to New Zealand.  I already have my visa and last week, as a signal of good faith, I bought my plane ticket.  Of course, it would be easier to take myself seriously if the ticket wasn’t round-trip.

I Want a Pony: The Impact of Technology on an Expat

Buenos Aires, Argentina

I want a pony. Not for my birthday, to deliver my mail.

Since moving to Argentina, I have developed a love-hate relationship with technology. Sure, email is great, enabling you to cross a hemisphere faster than a speeding bullet. But I long for the days of the pony express.

While my friend was living in Kenya, she and I became more than friends. We became pen pals, keeping in touch the old fashioned way with pen, paper, and stamps. Once, I made the mistake of giving her a hard time for not writing me sooner. In her defense, she argued, “If you ask me, 3-5 months is a perfect amount of time to pass between people on DIFFERENT CONTINENTS.”

She was right, of course. If I am living in Argentina and my friend is living in Kenya, it is only natural to expect that a birthday package mailed in June should arrive in September, with half the contents missing. Not only is it natural, it’s part of the fun. But technology has no respect for nature.

Technology is deceptive, luring you into a false sense of proximity. Features like Facebook, Skype, and Gchat trick you into thinking that everyone is more accessible than they really are. And make you believe that a 10-hour plane ride, a three-hour time difference, and a foreign language will have no effect on your personal life.

All choices have consequences and one of the consequences of moving, whether to a new city, state, or country, is that you leave behind many of the people, places, and things that you know and love. But when I moved, I secretly hoped that my life would remain frozen in place and time, patiently awaiting my return. In the beginning, I spent a lot of time online, relying heavily on my friends and family back home for support and companionship and trying to stay connected to my old life.

But each time I looked at a friend’s photo album online, I was forced to see with my own eyes that life had gone on without me. And I realized that no amount of emails, chats, and wall posts could compensate for the fact that my friends and family are no longer part of my daily life. At some point, I decided to look for opportunities to make my own memories.

Rather than surf the web, I began to volunteer and teach English, and eventually I found a full-time job. Rather than send a mass email after traveling, I began to invite friends over to look at photos, listen to my stories, and plan trips together. And rather than chat online, I began to have conversations, mostly in Spanish, over dinner and drinks. As the months went by, Argentina became not just my place of residence but my home.

Time spent in cyber space is time spent in limbo, suspended between here and there. You have limited mental, physical, and emotional resources. If you want to give yourself a chance at building a new life abroad, you have to be willing to take time and energy away from where you came and redirect it to where you are and where you want to go.

Recently, I received an email from one of my best friends from high school, who I had long since taken for lost. She explained, “I swear I’m not as much of a jerk as I must look like. This email went straight to my junk mail folder – I didn’t even see it until I was cleaning out my computer this week in prep for my move (departments not cities) and found it!  I was starting to wonder if you had completely disappeared…”

Relieved, I understood that while I was busy building a life in Buenos Aires my friend was doing the same in Columbus, Ohio. Moving abroad may magnify the challenge of growing up but all of us mature and move on. Some of my old friendships have been lost entirely and no number of new friends, regardless of how wonderful, will ever replace them. But fortunately, many of my previous relationships remain intact, albeit modified, and continue to grow across distance and time.

Choosing your own unique path in life is not without sacrifice. But lamenting your loss and trying to hold on to the past only prevents you from being present in the present and limits your options for the future. The best you can do is concentrate on the here and now, and hope that your path runs parallel to that of your loved ones so that when they do cross again, whether virtually or in person, it feels like nothing has changed.

Voting Across Country Lines

Buenos Aires, Argentina

“I really don’t see why I should have to pay taxes. I didn’t live in the United States last year.” It was March and I was seriously considering tax evasion.  I hadn’t sent children to school, driven on roads, or asked a fireman to remove my cat from a tree. It hardly seemed fair to pay for public goods that I was in no position to benefit from.  And yet, the IRS had extended its long arms to Latin America. I knew I couldn’t escape death by moving abroad, but what about income taxes?

Even though I lived and worked in Argentina during all of the previous fiscal year, some of my income had been earned in the United States.  For a few months, while I was waiting for my work-residency visa, I was on the payroll of my employer’s New York headquarters. In the end, a combination of peer pressure, the promise of a generous rebate, and fear of future repercussions convinced me to pay my taxes. I couldn’t believe that the U.S. government had followed me to Buenos Aires.

I have been living in virtual anarchy for the past three years.  Residing legally outside of my home country but not a citizen of my host country, I am practically untouched by government.  The notion of domestic politics ceases to exist, and what exactly are “foreign” politics when you yourself are a foreigner?  I knew that all around the world people were dying, temperatures and unemployment were rising, and governments, institutions, and companies were failing.  But the only current events that I cared about were how expensive tomatoes had become, whether I would able to take the subway to work, or if the taxi driver would want to talk to me about Iraq.  Civic engagement became a choice rather than a duty, and I chose to abstain.  Except on special occasions like tax season and national elections.

“Have you registered for an absentee ballot yet?”  That question, recently posed by my mother, burst my self-centered bubble of ignorance and apathy.  My initial response was an obstinate “no.” I tend to turn into a bratty teenager when my mother tells me what to do.  But in all honesty, I felt detached from every aspect of the presidential election – from the candidates to the campaigns, from the issues to the results.  But more than anything, I felt detached from being an American.

In fact, not being identified as a stereotypical American had become a source of pride.  During a family vacation to Colombia, a waiter, with whom I had been speaking in Spanish, asked me where we were from.  “The United States,” I replied. 

“Yea,” he insisted, “but where are you from?”

“The United States,” I repeated with a smile. 

“Oh,” he replied, embarrassed, “I was sure that you were Argentine.”

I have also been mistaken for Italian, Spanish, and Brazilian, and others simply can’t identify my origin.  “But you don’t look, dress, talk, or act like an American,” they tell me. “Thanks,” I always reply, flattered.  Being asked to vote was asking me to take interest in something that I had long since written off – the American public.

Nevertheless, a few days ago, I agreed to go with friends to a Vice Presidential debates viewing party hosted by democrats abroad.  “I’m drowning in a sea of Americans,” I remarked upon arrival. While people were playing Palin Bingo, I was busy inventing my own game – count the North Face fleeces, baseball hats, and button-up shirts. 

When the debates started, the room went quiet.  The only sounds were those of active listening – laughing, cheering, clapping, and jeering.  I looked around the room and found myself surrounded by educated, passionate, socially aware, culturally curious, and adventurous Americans.  We were hardly fit the description of “dirty, American tourists,” and yet we were all made in the U.S.A.

Maybe I would have turned out exactly the same if I had been born in a different place. I can credit much of my willingness and ability to live and travel abroad to having grown up in a country that promotes independence and freedom, appreciates diversity, advocates women’s rights, is financially stable, and is respected internationally, or at least used to be.  I may consider myself a citizen of the world, but this is in large part thanks to the fact that I am first and foremost a citizen of the United States.

I understand now that this election does directly affect me. Especially because everywhere I go, I become a representative of my country and the image of America is projected onto me, even if it doesn’t represent me.  U.S. politics are world politics, and as an avid traveler, I have a particular interest in the number of stable countries that welcome Americans.  And the reality is, no matter how far from home I travel, my permanent mailing address is still my parent’s house in Michigan.  I may be an expat, but I’m not disenfranchised.  So the answer is yes, mom, I’m going to vote.

*If you are a registered voter living in Buenos Aires, Argentina and have not yet received your absentee ballot, there will be a voting party at the US Embassy on October 8, 2008, 9am to noon.

Silent Retreat

Buenos Aires, Argentina                                 

When I moved to Argentina, I lost my voice.  It’s not that I didn’t know Spanish – I had studied Spanish in college and even spent a semester abroad in Spain.  It’s that I didn’t speak Spanish.  And I certainly didn’t speak Argentine Spanish.

Yet, despite my inability and reluctance to speak, I began to make friends.  One of the first things that I did when I arrived in Buenos Aires was sign up for classes.  Rather than enroll in a Spanish course, I took dance classes – an activity of few words.  In addition to teaching me the parts of the body, giving structure to my life and allowing me to develop and explore hidden talents and passions, I met people who had similar interests.   And they began to invite me to do things.  Particularly things that didn’t require a lot of speaking like dancing, watching movies, eating dinner with a large group of Argentines, and listening.

Truthfully, I never understood why anyone would possibly want to hang out with me.  I could not have been less boring. I spent a lot of time questioning people’s motivations and doubting myself – was I was just the token foreigner, the pet yanqui, a status symbol, a chance to practice English, a potential hook-up?  I also spent a lot of time faking it – smiling and nodding vaguely, laughing when it seemed appropriate, and matching my facial expression to the mood in the room.  And when I got really tired, I resorted to staring blankly.

I felt invisible. Many of my best qualities are expressed orally – my sense of humor, intelligence, wisdom, and empathy.  If I couldn’t make jokes, give advice, discuss politics and philosophy, ask questions, or tell stories, who was I? I hadn’t just lost my voice. I had lost my personality as well.

Except that you don’t suddenly stop being you when you stop speaking. People can still see you even if they can’t hear you.  The things you do, the places you go, the way you act and react, your walk, dress, and body language all say as much, or more, about you than your words.

Words are not the only way we have of communicating who we are. Sense of humor is evidenced by how often you laugh, especially at yourself, as well as by how often you make others laugh.  Intelligence is measured by how quickly you learn, as well as by how much you already know. Who I am was understood, even if it was never clearly stated.

In fact, during my vow of silence I discovered that language had been holding me back.  I used to talk about doing things rather than actually do them.  I used sarcasm to conceal my emotions.   I analyzed, evaluated, and justified every action. Without words to hide behind, I was more exposed than ever. I couldn’t talk about who I was, I could just be. And I learned that if you are a person worth getting to know, people will invest time and energy in getting to know you. Even if it does require patience and the occasional game of charades.

With time, I learned Spanish, recovered my voice, and began to talk again.  A lot.  Especially since I now have much more interesting things to say and twice as many ways to say them.  But sometimes, I still prefer to just listen. 

Taking the Country Out of the Girl

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Argentines have a bad reputation. They are known throughout Latin America for being vain and arrogant. Porteños, residents of Buenos Aires, and Buenos Aires itself can be aggressive and exaggerated.  Fights break out over being crowded on a crowded subway. People spend the entire time on line at the bank sighing audibly.  An acquaintance of Cuban origin once shared with me a phrase used to describe Argentines – Vayan a donde vayan, les caen mal.  Wherever they go, people don’t like them.

A long time passed before I was able to see things that way.  As soon as I set foot in Buenos Aires, I was smitten with the city and its inhabitants.   Everyone was vibrant, talkative, friendly, and warm.  The city was exciting, active, and welcoming. In fact, one of my first days here, I serenaded the city with a rousing rendition of “I Think I’m Going to Like it Here” from Annie.

My adoration of Buenos Aires was partly a matter of taste, and partly the product of a quarter-life crisis.  When I was a teenager, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that I didn’t like my life or the direction in which it was headed.  Although it was a wonderful life, it wasn’t right for me.

My decision to move abroad was my first attempt at exploring the alternatives.  Only, I didn’t so much explore them as swallow them whole. The truth is that three years ago, I wasn’t looking for options.  I was looking for answers. Specifically, answers to the question Who am I?

Like any lost, vulnerable young girl in need of direction and scared of rejection, I transformed into who I thought I had to be in order to fit in and gain acceptance. “Clearly, I’m not American”, I thought, as if taking the girl out of the country takes the country out of the girl, “maybe I can be Argentine?”  I didn’t want to like Buenos Aires. I needed to like it.  Besides, who was I to criticize?  I was just a guest here after all.

After three years of living, working, dining, dating, renting apartments, paying bills, and doing laundry in Buenos Aires, the novelty wore off and the blinders came off. I got to know myself better and I began to see the city for how it truly is.  I had earned the right to judge.

It turns out that there are things that I don’t like about my biological and adopted homes in equal measure: Americans rigid adherence to rules and Argentines complete disregard for law and order; the way that American guys wait two days to call and Argentine guys call 14 times in a row; how Americans eat dinner at 6:00pm and Argentines go to bed at 6:00 am; how Americans are always in a rush and Argentines are never arrive on time.

Of course, there are things that I adore about Argentina. Like how Sundays are reserved for the family; strangers strike up conversations on the street; friends greet with a kiss on the cheek; nights unfold naturally, with dinner sometimes lasting until dawn; everyone has an extracurricular activity; and there is no shame on working on yourself, say with a therapist or personal trainer. 

And there are things that I miss about America.  Like diversity (cultural, linguistic, sexual, religious); variety (of foods, clothes, activities, and thoughts); quality services and products; women’s rights; respect for privacy (except that of celebrities); the emphasis on education, independence, efficiency, and ethics; and my family and friends.

For me, moving abroad was supposed to be about giving myself the freedom to choose, and more options to choose from. It was not meant to be a blanket rejection of my home country or a blind acceptance of my host country, but rather an opportunity to begin building a life of my own design, using the customs, traditions, habits, and styles best suited to me.  I now understand that not sharing everything in common doesn’t mean that I don’t belong, and that I don’t have to like everything in order to be happy and comfortable here.  Living in Argentina and traveling through South America have expanded my options exponentially, but I always retain the right to take them or leave them.

Right now, my life has some elements that are distinctly American, some that are distinctly Argentine, some acquired during travels, some that are entirely of my own creation, and some yet to be determined.  I still haven’t found everything that I’m looking for.  Perhaps I never will.  In the meantime, I’m enjoying the journey.

Recently, I was on a flight back to Buenos Aires after nearly a month of traveling in Central America.  As I observed my fellow passengers gesturing wildly, arguing indignantly with the flight crew, and blatantly breaking the rules of air travel etiquette and safety, I turned to my friend and muttered, “The problem with flying to Buenos Aires is that you’re on a plane full of Argentines.” But I’m allowed to say things like that because it’s my family that I’m talking about. 

 

 

 

 

 

Native English Speaker

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Like most little girls, I dreamed of being famous.  A famous what exactly – ballerina, singer, actress, first woman president of the United States – was irrelevant.  With time and the realization that I have no marketable talent, my dreams of stardom began to fade.  Fade but not die.

Two people forwarded me the email about a casting for a “juicy” role in a horror-suspense short being filmed in Buenos Aires.  The character was described as a “25-32 American girl, New York, blond, classy socialite.” And there was just one requirement, underlined and written in bold, “must be a native English speaker.”  Never mind that I have brown hair and zero acting experience, I’m a native English speaker!  My 15 minutes had finally arrived in my inbox, or so I thought. 

I emailed the casting director and scheduled an audition.  Let’s just say, I wasn’t good.  But I had a lot of fun and it was a great, albeit slightly embarrassing, experience that inspired me to take acting classes.  The real point is that under different circumstances, I would never have considered going on a casting and no casting director in their right mind would have considered giving me an audition.  I had been given this unique opportunity to try something I’d only ever daydreamed of because I am a 25 year-old American living in Buenos Aires.

Friends and acquaintances moving to Buenos Aires often ask me for advice, and the number one concern is employment.  People seem to be willing to do most anything, except teach English.  Ironically, in the words of a friend of a friend, “I’m most worried about the job as I will need a decent income.  I’m a teacher here but don’t necessarily want to be doing that there.”

I understand, I didn’t want to teach English either. Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with teaching English, if you’re an actual teacher, which I’m not and you enjoy teaching, which I don’t.  Being a native speaker of a language hardly means that I’m qualified to or interested in teaching it to others.

Before moving abroad, I imagined that I would need time to find an apartment, meet people, learn Spanish, and familiarize myself with my new city, and that I would want time to sightsee, shop, eat at restaurants, travel, and stay out until 6am.  So I saved enough money to have time to play before worrying about work. 

When I finally decided to get a job, I was shocked by how limited the options were: food service, retail, or teach English.  In the end, I took a job with a private language institute where I used my degree in economics and international relations from a private American university to teach business English to employees of the consulting firm where I had interned the summer before moving abroad.

Argentina is a developing country with a recovering economy and even qualified Argentines have trouble finding good jobs with good salaries. Why did I ever think that it would be easy for a foreigner who barely speaks Spanish, commands a relatively high wage in the international labor market, and doesn’t have a work-residency visa to find a job in Buenos Aires?  Call it wishful thinking.

After months of inventing explanations for idioms, getting stood up by students, and filling two-hour breaks napping on the floor of empty classrooms, I got a “real job,” as a member of the content and support team for a nonprofit website.  Benefits included a regular work schedule, a generous salary, health insurance, and a work-residency visa.  I couldn’t believe my good fortune. It took just under a year to find this job.

During the visa application process, my employer was asked to justify my employment.  As they explained it, the position had to be filled by a native English speaker.  I was working at a glorified call center.

I disliked the idea that all I had to offer an employer was the language I was born speaking.  But the reality is that in the age of globalization and outsourcing, being a native English speaker in a place where English speakers are in limited supply was what allowed me to find a good job and demand good pay. 

Great opportunities for expats do exist, if you’re patient enough to wait for them to appear, and open and brave enough to go for them.  (I have a friend who was hired to be the producer of a series of Spanish language learning videos. National Geographic recently held a competition for Glimpse correspondents).

In the meantime, ask yourself why you moved abroad. My guess is that the answer has nothing to do with career advancement or your retirement plan. Always keep your real motivations in mind and don’t try to make your time abroad about something that it’s not.  And remember, whether you’re proud to be an American or not, it may just be your meal ticket, or your ticket to fame.