Sorry, not sorry

I usually begin my days with "I'm sorry I ate all of your Dulce de leche, again," as I'm grabbing a spoonful of a new container right in front of everybody, and then I proceed to commend the Southern Hemisphere, South America, Argentina, Córdoba, Córdoba, Barrio Urca, in which one takes the N5 orange bus, for it's spoils and remedies to entice or mend any broken soul that has had a sinus infection for the past month and has run out of socks that are hole-free from the second-to-big toe. 

And then I usually end my days with thoughts such as "deja vu, I do the same thing every day," or "what more is there to live for other than conversations in Spanish, getting lost and walking for miles, dying of hunger until you buy a McDonsld's triple decker hamburger, hanging out with friends who only wish that you were their friends back home, occasionally asking everybody if their parents worked for the government during the Dirty War and then getting mad at everyone else who asks you what the Dirty War was," my point is, I miss dorm life, where you are half a second away from everyone, and they will swaddle you. 

I'm an introvert, so I like to take time away from people and recharge my battery, but whenever it's basically 95% of me being alone, I go mad. 

And since there's no chocolate to eat away my sorrows, I have dulce de leche, which is even better.

So, sorry I ate all of your Dulce de leche, again.

Photo insecurity in Latin America

Sometimes I get insecure when none of my friends on Facebook "like" my travel photos.

And then I am oddly consoled by the fact that 20 random people I do not know on Instagram "like" the photos.

I still upload them to Facebook with the small ounce of hope that my photos will touch at least one of my friend's souls. 

Red skirt runs after the colectivo

Monday was the day of the Apocalypse when it comes to weather conditions. The first bout of warm weather turned out to be incineratingly warm, and the wind was obnoxious enough that the dust storm left a dirty brown haze in the sky and a light powdery blanket on each of the parked cars, not to mention the occasional grittiness in my mouth. But we aren´t talking about the lovely dust storms of Latin America. Let me amuse you with my story of running after the bus, or ¨colectivo¨ as we would say. The bus I must take to go anywhere out of my neighborhood is the N5. Sometimes I imagine it to be the name of a gang or drug cartel organization, but most of the time I view it as a pathetic response to infrastructure and the promises of improved transportation. 

I waited at one of the bus stops. I saw the orange letters of the N5 coming towards me like the infantry in a battle, tearing down the dusty road. I lept from my perch, and standing in the road I raised my arm in a salutatory beckon to my obligatory salvation. The bus driver and I made eye contact. He motioned something with his hand, and drove on. I can´t remember if I had the look of disbelief on my face or the look of anger and an already deep-seeded hatred for the N5. I didn´t know what to do - I had missed my bus, and the chances of another one coming by were close to another thirty minutes of waiting, which would mean that I would then be thirty mintutes late to class.

A woman across the street yelled in Spanish ¨run to the next stop,¨ which is exactly what I did, without even saying a thank you. I sprinted a good three or four streets, and as I was coming upon the back of the bus it began to take off at full speed. I stopped with disbelief because I knew that I would not be able to make it to the next stop which was an even further distance. I weighed my options. 1. I could wait for thirty minutes and take the chances that the bus be late. 2. I could walk 25 minutes down another street to the main road and take any of the buses that passed. 

As I was pondering my misfortunes, another N5 bus passed - which never happens. I stuck out my arm in hopes that the driver would be kind enough to stop even though I wasn´t even at a stop. He wasn´t even looking at the road while he was eating his sandwich. And that´s when I ran five or six blocks. The bus by then had pulled up to the red light and was waiting. The doors to the bus were open because of the heat, and just as the light was about to turn green I yelled ¨Señor¨ and jumped onto the bus as it was rolling away. I swiped my card and collapsed into a heap in the only available seat on that N5.

This tall, blonde-haired girl in a red skirt running after the bus had caused other cars to stop, but not the N5. The next time I have to run after the N5, I sure hope it´s not during another dust storm in 100 degree weather while I am wearing my pretty, red skirt. 

I came to Argentina

Insert [I came to Argentina.]

I've never had a cold until [...]

I had pink eye when I was four years old and haven't had it since until [...]

I've had two sinus infections since [...]

The flu couldn't evade me more than once since [...]

I almost had strep twice since [...]

And the doctors only prescribed ibuprofen when [...]

Shampoo indicates semi-permanency

Upgraded from travel-size to small bottle. I bought shampoo. After the fourth time of visiting the store and perusing the options. I really hope I got the right kind. 

Almost as difficult as buying milk while living in a foreign country. 

Life just got a shampoo bottle's worth of permanency. 

Yell one more time

I have a great idea! Why don't we all yell back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom at 8am because we never finished the loud conversation we were having at 2am. 

To note:

Four daughters had Count Raymond Berenger, 

Each one of them a queen, thanks to Romeo.

This man of lowly birth, this pilgrim-soul.

- Dante Alighieri

The Divine Comedy: Paradise

Canto VI