Mele Kalikimaka Folks!!

It's December 9th and the citizens of the great white North are hunkering down for a long winters nap. Right now they're out buying egg nog and christmas trees; they're shopping to and fro for the latest and greatest gifts, all the while scrapping ice chunks from their defrosting car windows. The radio stations have long since started their 24/7 Christmas jingles, getting people in the holiday spirit more than a month in advance. You're right 105.7, Alvin and the Chipmunks should be played until it is obnoxiously stuck in your brain well through St. Patricks day.

Christmas in North America is more than just a day; it's a month worth of bargain shopping, present wrapping, stress inducing HELL... Now don't get me wrong, I love Christmas. It's a wonderful holiday and the saying really is true, "it's better to give than receive." I love shopping for my family and Moose, but I don't like all the BS that surrounds this soul-crushing day.

For those of you that don't know, the Gilbert's and Mrs. Britt are escaping the bitter cold to venture to the addictive city of Buenos Aires for a holiday in the sun (and humidity). Thus far I have already been enjoying the beauty that is the Holiday Season in the Southern Hemisphere. For example, at parks, malls, and buildings, you can find yourself looking at huge, plastic Christmas trees, bedazzled with hand-woven tinsel and gaudy ornaments. You can throw on a skimpy two-piece and head to a grassy area to be surrounded by beautiful men and women leisurely bronzing their already sun-kissed shoulders. Just don't expect to cozy up to a roasting fire with a cup of hot chocolate here; instead grab a glass of crisp, white wine and head to the balcony to breathe in the sweet, flower-drunk air that breezes past your face.

To date, I have yet to hear even a single Christmas carol, and Santa isn't causing mothers and children to throw tantrums when the midget elf closes the line 15 minutes early. The malls don't seem to be any busier than they normally are. Not that I typically go to the mall here, aside from it being a shortcut and a proven way of cutting exactly 2 minutes off my daily commute. In all, it's be an extremely stressless holiday season, a first in my 25 years.

This year, due to location, we won't be able to do all of the same "Gilbert Traditions" we are accustomed to, but I'll try to stick to as many as I can. The night before, I'm banking on one of the family members to bring "Christmas Vacation," a staple of American comedy/culture and the Gilbert family. I'm not sure if I can remember a time that we didn't watch this the night before. Yes, as a family, we could single handedly recite the entire video from start to finish, but that's what traditions are!!

For any of you who aren't aware of the famous Male Kalikimaka scene, here you go:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWN5Chp1Hyg

Christmas morning will always consist of eggs benedict, grapefruits, and mimosas, no matter where we are in the world. But this year instead of a large turkey dinner that the mother slaves over all day, we will be enjoying a traditional Argentine asado, complete with chorizo, beef, and red wine. If I'm lucky, Bevy will bring the chinese poppers, equipped with paper hats and small toys (See picture above).

Cariló, Argentina will be the location of our sun-drenched getaway. It's called the "Forest on the Beach," and thankfully isn't a typical tourist destination. We'll be two blocks away from the surf and 300 clicks away from the hustle and bustle of the big smoke that is Buenos Aires. I think it'll be a great introduction for the gringos to the relaxed Argentine pace of life. Plus Papa G will absolutely love the BBQs here (insert Tim "The ToolMan" Taylor grunt here).

It's been funny chatting with people about customs here. Take Santa for example, or Papa Noel for Argies; in this country, the bearded man defies all laws of reason and logic, and enters each house exactly at midnight, while the children are busy hiding in their rooms. With the jingle of a bell, the kiddies emerge to find a room full of red-faced, drunk relatives and a tree full of presents. Now, as a believer well into my 13th year, I just don't see how these kids haven't figured it out earlier. Maybe anglo-saxton kids are more intelligent... Just spitballing ideas!

In sum: While we may not have a tree this year or even presents for that matter (three flights to BA is sufficient enough), we'll have each other, and that's worth its weight in gold.

So to everyone, I send hugs and kisses, and a very Merry Christmas, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel, Felix Natal, and Mele Kalikimaka from Buenos Aires!

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Very unrelated... I've jumped on the Amy Winehouse bandwagon a few years behind the times and would suggest listening to, "Me, Mrs. Jones." My sister-in-law first turned me on to her, and now it's a full-blown addiction. It's sensational song and every time I listen to it, I drift off to hedonistic memories that will one day fill a chapter in my book dedicated to the "Elusive Mrs. Jones" and the man she fell in love with.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MVziVfYz2w

Life is Simple...

Life is easy when it's all drawn out for you.

Hey Everybody, Come See How Funny I Am!!

I recently had a conversation with a friend about online dating, and about how you would describe yourself, which got me thinking… If I wanted to bullshit people, I’d say something like, “carefree blonde, adventure traveler, full of life, easy going, athletic, and fun sense of humor…” blah blah blah.

Yes those are all my characteristics, but it really doesn’t read “Laura.” What I would truly want to say, is “Perfectly highlighted blonde, impulsive to the point of carless traveler, full of life (ya that’s pretty spot on), easy going when consuming, athletic-soccer-playing tomboy covered in bruises, and absolutely, sarcastically-f*cking-hilarious.

We’ve all heard the saying “An apple a day, keeps the doctor away.” Well, I’ve tweaked my personal version; my motto to live by, my mantra, my adage would be:

“One belly laugh a day, keeps the doctor away.”

I think it goes without saying that anyone who comes into contact with me is impressed with my quick tongue and even quicker wit (geeeez I'm modest too). Making people laugh is a very unconscious act for me, and it could even be a selfish one; as we all know, laughter is contagious. The more people that laugh around me, the more I get to laugh and the glorious circle continues.

One aspect that many find difficult when learning another language is how to be funny. I don’t know if I could go an entire day without being sarcastic, or quick with a joke (thanks billy joel), or draw attention to how absurd I can be. It’s just impossible… Well, let me rephrase that to, "in English it’s impossible."

Spanish is another story. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to explain, “that’s what she said” to argentines. It just doesn’t translate over culturally. Take for example the conversation I was having the other day with some friends. Someone casually said (in Spanish), “it seems like we’re changing positions all the time.”

What was my gut reaction….? “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!”

I couldn’t believe it; I was set up perfectly, hit it out of the park, intonation and all, and I got nothing… No laugh, no snicker, just a questioning look from the argentine peanut gallery that sat across from me. One finally asked me, “wait, who is she? And what did she say?”

I dropped my head and buried myself in my Malbec, beaten and torn. Now, don’t get me wrong, I definitely make people laugh in Spanish, I’m just not sure if they’re laughing with me or at me. I mean, a laugh is a laugh, right?

And the next time someone says something to me on the Subte or bus, along the lines of, "Can you push yourself in further?" I'll stifle my laughter and attempt to act like an adult (well maybe).

Getting all Frost-y

It’s interesting to think backwards and John Madden your life. Obviously there are things I would have done differently; maybe I should've shut my mouth a few times, or thought twice about a decision. Sometimes I wish I had turned right instead of left.

Recently I’ve been having my students study poetry because, well, I’m the teacher and they get to do what I want. We started analyzing Robert Frosts’ “The Road Not Taken,” a staple for travelers all of the world. It has been one of my favorites since I heard it for the first time in the 7^th grade and in an oddly cliché way, it has helped define my life.

If you haven’t read the poem, I’ll give you the Reader-Digest version:

“Picture a grimy backpacker who comes upon a fork in the road. No one’s around, and he has to make a decision, because he obviously can’t be in two places at once. He looks at both; one is pristine while the other is unmaintained. Being a dirty hippy, he chooses to go left and take the road-less-traveled-by.

Even though he wants to see how the other road looks, he’ll inevitably lack funds, chain himself to a tree, or might catch the whiff of another like-minded-female-soul, either way, he knows invariably that he’s never going to go back to that same place.

We see his future-self sighing, saying that despite everything, it was worth it in the end.”

So, which road do you think I’m cruising on?? Ahh yes, the very same road as the dirty hippie.

There is a sequence in everyone’s life that leads to another; “Do I want to have coffee or a red bull? Do I want to quit my job or stay? Do I want to leave town for a weekend or hang around home?” I’m not a scientist, but I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that, “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”

Hmmm… what to do with this information?

Yes, I chose to take “The Road Less Traveled By,” and it’s obviously made a difference in my life. At this point, I can keep up with a conversation in Spanish, I can maneuver easily through public transportation (oh the horror!), and I can officially say that I know how to make, cook, and serve an Argentine Asado.

But where does that leave me?

Everyday I wake up and I’m surprised at how much I fall more and more in love with Argentina. The people and the culture are inspiring. To be surrounded by people full of fiery passion is an addiction that I just can’t kick.

When I first arrived here, I thought my easy path was chosen. I was going to live here for a year, return and reunite with an ex-flame, and live happily ever after. Enter a HUGE FREAKING FORK, and I decided to turn left down a path that doesn't appear to have an off-ramp.

So here’s my next fork and I know I’m going to be breaking the rules here, but I need to get it out there…. Friends and family, there’s a chance that one day I’m going to bring home an Argentine… There’s also a chance that I will be staying for a longer than a year… It also looks like Moose will be accompanying me…

Beverley, breathe!!

All clichés aside, to answer a pervious question of mine: “Do I want to leave town for a weekend or hang around home?” Hmmm…? Path chosen, decision made, and Rosario, Argentina was a phenomenal adventure.

Action, reaction.

“Cumbia, Raggaeton, Twirling and Ass-Shaking, Whatever it is, I Like it”

Whether its hearing “little white girl can dance” in English or “oooh mira la rubia quien puede bailar,” in either language, it always means more rump shaking. You do it while showering, while brusing your teeth, and oh-so-Demi-Moore-esque, while blow-drying your hair (thank you “Striptease” your theatrical value carries its weight in gold).

If you didn't know, Argentina is the birthplace of Tango. Yes, when my parents come here I’ll take them to a show and let them see the beauty and grace of professional dancers. Then right after they’ll be going to a boliche (club) to see how Argentines really get down, cumbia/salsa/reggaeton-style.

A few months ago, a student of mine (surprise, surprise a student) told me that American guys don’t know how to dance and I began to think back… waaaaay back….

I dated this guy before I moved down here, who had music on during every second of his day, albeit rap, but music nonetheless. Now, that boy could dance, just not in a way that you’d want your parents to see. He was smooth and swayed along with the beat, allowing me to jump in when he wasn’t busy doing choreographed moves with his friends. Believe me, it looked cooler than my written account.

Ok, so there’s one guy that can dance, but I’ll have to go back even farther to find another one, lets say to the fresh age of 16.

Ahhh, Kevo. Yes, many of you know my first boyfriend, Kevin. Well, he is another example of a white boy that can move, sometimes showcasing the “White-Man-Overbite” and the always respected, “Sprinkler.”

Kev’s charming and funny, so we’ll count that as #2 of guys I’ve dated who knew how to dance.

Then I moved to Argentina, AND EVERYTHING CHANGED.

****So here’s my top 5 dancing moments in BA*****

Number 5: The first time I was merked by Latin dancing was about 2 weeks in, when I went out with my host parent’s son for a night of music and drinking. He didn’t speak English and my Spanish was shit, but who needs the spoken word when you've got body language! At 40ish years old, homeboy could move; hands, hips, head, all moving in this gorgeous, fluid movement. That was the moment I realized I would love living in Argentina.

Number 4: El Bicentenario. To celebrate Argentina’s 200^th birthday, my friends and I went downtown for an enormous outdoor concert where I met a pair of twins that will ultimately go down in history as two of my favorite dance partners. Maybe it was the Fernet, or maybe it was the puff (cough cough) pass, but there is nothing better than the feeling of floating, spinning, and watching the world go by. (Two pairs of breathtaking green eyes don't hurt either.)

Number 3: This one may be a shocker for all you Midwesterners out there, but some of my best experiences have been with.... GIRLS.

One will go down in infamy for the rest of my living existence as the girl that ahemm “let me taste her cherry chapstick.” I’m not proud, she was mistaken, but I thanked her for her interest. Next up is the ever graceful, Carol “The Cazz” Gutierrez. Australian-born, Argentine blood pulsing through her veins, which means she can grab your hand and twirl you around the dance floor like a pro. To say she made me blush is an understatement.

Number 2: Watching trannies at midnight in the park… I don’t know if I want to go into details on this one, as there could be youngsters reading... Lets just say they don’t follow the rule of “Less is More” and absolutely nothing is left to the imagination. That being said, I’d let any of them take me out for a night on the town, even on a Tuesday (GASSSP)!

Number 1: I’m going to go ahead and keep this one to myself for my personal memory bank. I know you’re all dying to know who it was with, where, when, etc etc, but there are just some memories that are just too exceptional to share with the rest of the world… at least until the book comes out…

(I will give you a hint though; he was an Argentine, handsome, and astounding).

Tales From a Telo

***Preface: Dear Mom, Dad, Nana, and Grandpa: Please know that what I am about to write is not from my own experiences. It is a finely crafted account of tales from friends, and is thus a fictional story. Please don’t think any less of me.***

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Imagine this: you’re out with your friends at a disco and you meet an amazing guy; he’s gorgeous, tall, Argentine… You hit it off; one things leads to another, and you decide to leave with him.

You stroll hand-in-hand past the hoards of people still on the prowl. He shoots you an irresistible smile and you can’t help but think to yourself, “This guy could be the one.”

Clearly, it’s the fernet and coke talking.

You try to dazzle him with your Spanish language skills by throwing around “vos” and “che” to show that you’ve pseudo-mastered Porteño slang. Really he isn’t listening to a word that you’re saying because lets face it, no man truthfully cares about what women say, in any language.

You suavely throw out your hand to flag down a taxi, all the while teasing the Argentine with your hands, your tongue, your body, to show him that American girls aren’t as frigid as everyone says.

You get in the taxi and are smacked by reality: he’s a 26-year old Argentine, who lives with his parents, and you live in a house full of girls, in a little bed, with walls so thin you could hear an ant sneeze…

Rule number one for mastering the hook up in Argentina: do you homework, know your neighborhood, and scout out the local Telos. “Godoy Cruz y Güemes, por favor,” you say to the taxi driver without skipping a beat.

He is impressed with your working knowledge of Argentine Telos, the infamous rent by the hour hotel rooms.

15 minutes, and a good deal of ass grabbing later, you’ve reached your final destination of the night, Telo “X.”

Now is a pivotal point of the night that will show you just how well you’ve seduced your prey. He ops for the most expensive room; you smile to yourself, satisfied knowing you did your job correctly.

The hallways of the Telo snake and turn like a labyrinth. Room 25. You two walk in and are greeted by an Middle-Eastern scene, complete with sari-draped walls, smiling Buddhas, and the faint smell of incense. Outstanding selection, Argie.

The bathroom is outfitted with a Jacuzzi, jasmine bubbles, and his and hers toothbrushes. Upon closer inspection, you notice that above the four-poster bed that a large, ornate, and somewhat gaudy mirror is fastened. The room reeks of male interior design. The linens are of a high thread count and you could get lost for days in the tenderness of the pillows.

He orders a bottle of wine from the 24-hour bar, but you know you’ll never get to enjoy it because in the 5 minutes it takes to get to the room, you’ll already be submerged in your own version of Arabian Nights.

Your phone alarm sounds at 9:00 am; you realize that the night and the fantasy, is over. Like a great dream, you try to slip back into your role, but you know it’ll never be the same.

The suns rays splash your face as you leave the Telo and make your way back to your apartment. Your Argentine softly kisses you as you say your goodbyes. He whispers, “Nos llamamos,” or “We’ll see eachother,” into your ear and jumps into a taxi. Whether or no you’ll see him again is unknown, but you’ll always have that one perfect night in the Middle-Eastern themed Telo.

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There are a few things that Argentines have mastered, Malbec and fútbol for instance. Another is their insatiable thirst for all things sexual. They aren’t coy about what their intentions are; they want sex and a lot of it, hence the success of Telos, Swingers Clubs, and the age-old profession of prostitution.

They put their sexuality out there, and you can’t fault them for that.

I think I've found my knack for fictional writing, no?

Santiago = Pobrecita Lau

It never fails… It absolutely never fails… With an addiction to traveling comes certain sacrifices and annoyances. One for example, is missing out on various holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. Another is the inevitable drying out of your bank account. For me, it has and always will be, lost luggage.

I vividly remember my first experience with lost luggage. My brother had been living in France for a year and during this time, Skype and the Internet were not widely used. At 17, I missed my brother more than you could imagine and couldn’t wait for our family trip to see him.

We landed at Charles de Gaulle, and made our way to baggage claim where suitcase #1 and #2 quickly showed up, but sadly, Little Laura’s bag was MIA. In most airports around the world, the staff can typically function in English, that is, every country but France. Imagine a 17 year old, overly sensitive girl who hadn’t seen one of her best friends in a year (cue the sob story music), and who could cry at the drop of a dime.

I’m not sure how, but David was able to make his way through customs to see what was happening. The second I saw him, my eyes welled up with tears and I broke down. Yes, it’s only luggage, but it was my luggage. Anyways, it turns out that when we left for France, my bag decided to detour to Hawaii. One day later, and it was safely back in my hands.

Next up, AerLingus… During my senior year of college, I went to visit my (then) boyfriend in Dublin for Thanksgiving. As most people living abroad, he had a huge list of things for me to bring (including a huge bottle of Kahlua and Vodka—you know, the essentials, or more so, the White Russian essentials).

After missing my flight at O’Hare, bc flight attendants are mindless robots (no offense), I was juggled around and eventually put on another flight to London, then Dublin. Ok, great. Another two hours at O’Hare gives me just enough time to drink a beer (or 2) and watch some classic American football (Bear Down, baby!!!).

After a grueling 16 hours, I was finally in Dublin awaiting a movie-scene-like reunion with my guy. Sadly this picturesque setting was thwarted by (once again) lost luggage…

We immediately got Mama G on the horn trying to sort out where in the hell my luggage went this time. This time we were dealing with English speakers however, beware: just because they speak the same language, doesn’t mean they are any more competent.

Phone call after phone call, Mama G finally forced one unlucky AerLingus worker to walk down to the luggage area at O’Hare, where magically my two bags had settled in for a long stay. They put my bags on the next flight, which in international travel terms, meant they wouldn’t be there for another 24 hours. Eventually they got there 2 days after I had left the States, and we cracked open the liquor. AerLingus ended up paying me 240 Euros for my troubles, which I quickly turned into an Irish shopping spree.

Which brings me around to my latest fiasco… Santiago, Chile. My roommate, Faby, and I were able to find some great deals to Santiago and thanks to Uncle Wayne and Aunt Natali, we had a comfy place to lay our heads.

(Some background info: Argentina is known for the strength of its worker unions that are often on strike) We were scheduled to leave at 9:00 on a Thursday night; at 7:00 pm I received an email from one of my favorite students giving me the heads up that LAN Airline pilots were on strike. Fan-freaking-tastic…

With our positive attitudes, we headed to the airport and were pleasantly surprised that international flights were not affected by the strike. While my bag is clearly carry-on size, the man at the counter nixed any carry on luggage, stating that there wasn’t enough room. Ok, no biggie. Tag it, weigh it, and send it on its way!!!

You know how the second you let your guard down, something bad happens? Welp, karma decided to grip me like a vice this faithful night…. We arrived in Santiago and after a hectic time getting my entry fee approved (care of: US, Canada, and Australia reciprocity fees), found the baggage claim.

“Mira, mi equipaje,” Faby said. Great, wonderful, mine should be right behind hers. Ladies and Gentleman, operative word: SHOULD… I’m pretty sure you all know where I’m going with this one: “Where the hell is my bag!??” Ahhh Little One, when will you learn, that when it comes to traveling, you’re always going to get the raw end of the deal…

It turns out that there wasn’t enough room in the luggage hold, so they randomly chose bags to leave in BA. This time I was equipped with a fluent Spanish speaker to fight my battle. We gave them all of my info and the Hostel that we were staying at for the night. They told us the bags would land at 9 am.

Like the boy who cried wolf, I believed them until we found out that the flight had been delayed (thanks to the strike). Ok, now it’ll be there at 3:00… Breakfast followed by Pisco Sours and a trip to the mall will do me just fine while we wait. Then we found out that it would be there around 6… Our patience beginning to wane…

We made our way back to the Hostel to collect our bags, where we were met by the most dim-witted chick I have ever met. To make a long story short, the airline called and asked if I was there, she said no because she was too dense to check the registration log, and my luggage was gone for another night. “Que boluda,” was all I could say, meaning, what an f*ing idiot for all you gringos.

In the end, it took a day and a half to make its way back into my possession. Am I upset? Yes. Will I ever quit traveling because of it? No. I just hope that one day I remember to take the advice of my mother and pack some of my Victoria’s Secrets in my purse.

Indiana University (Noun): A school where students spend more time drinking than going to class

Hi, I’m Laura and I’m walking kilombo.

Back at home my friends know me inside and out; all the good, the bad, and the ugly. I believe they would describe me as:

fun,

outgoing,

a complete mess-yes that’s more appropriate.

They’ve been there holding my hair back when I’ve been “sick.” They’ve been there dancing on the bar with me. They’ve been there for so many memories (most of which I unfortunately don’t really remember). We have more fun than you could shake a stick at, and I miss them and their ridiculous ways daily. They really are why I am the way I am today.

Anyways, I've found myself talking about my life back at home more than normal and it finally hit me why…. Because my life has been f*cking awesome. At first I really didn’t think there were too many cultural differences between Argentines and Americans (sorry, for this one, I’m going to be strictly American). Then the World Cup hit and the differences started to flow like the BP oil spill (too early to joke??!). Ok, let me explain…

People think that Argentines know how to party; they eat late, drink late, and stay out until the sun comes up, an impressive feat to the untrained eye. For an Indiana University (my Alma Mater) student, this is nothing short of a normal week. Like a finely tuned athlete, IU students prepare in their bodies to withstand 5-7 straight nights of booze and bars, beginning with $2.00 Tuesdays at Kilroys and culminating with dropping it low at Sports on Saturday night.

There is a phenomenon that exists in the States called COLLEGE TAILGATING, an indescribable event that I wish everyone in the world could experience. At IU, it might be because our football team could get worked by a little-league squad, but for us a football game = gratuitous drinking.

Let me walk you through the weekend schedule during football season:

Friday

3:00 pm: Finish up classes, go home, and crack open your first fresh, crisp Budlight of the night.

8:30 pm: Rock, paper, scissor to see which roommate will be showering first.

9:00 pm: Shower beers (yes, drinking a beer while showering).

10:00 pm: A combination of Beer Pong, Kings, Power-Hour, Flippy-Cup, or old fashioned shots.

11:30 pm: Bars, shots, bars, shots.

3:00 am: Stumble home.

3:30 am: Enjoy a Big-10 from Pizza Express (I recommend BBQ chicken).

4:00am: Bed.

Saturday

8:00 am: Wake up and don your favorite IU shirt

8:30 am: Decide with the roommates whether you will be enjoying Bloody-Marys or Screwdrivers for breakfast.

10:00 am: Head out to the tailgating fields for an all day drink-fest (don’t forget the puppy).

4:00 pm: After having your fill of hamburgers, brats, shot gunning beers, and port-o-potties, it’s time to get home for a nap.

4:30 pm: Glorious naptime.

8:30 pm: See Friday schedule, and repeat….

So, as you can see, I was completely and utterly shocked when I sat down for the first World Cup game at 11:00 am and realized that NO ONE was going to be drinking.. WTF?? Sports are really the only acceptable excuse to drink in the morning without looking like an alcoholic…

Sorry Argies, but your game and your partying endurance are weak in comparison. Put your training wheels on, learn how to dance to something other than cumbia (preferably hip hop), come to Indiana, and I'll show you how professionals work. And if you freaking ask me again why I am the way I am, please refer back to this post, I’m tired of explaining.

Partyability----Americans: 1, Argentineans: 0.

Decoding Chamuyeros

"She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed;

She is a woman, therefore to be won"

-Billy Shakespeare

Argentinean men could charm the knickers off of even the most devout nun... So much so, that there is actually a name dedicated to these inspirational beings: “Chamuyero” pronounced shaam-u-shero for all you gringos. (*Note: for this piece I only be referencing the behaviors of the male population because women really only need their god-given “talents” to snag a man)

It goes without saying that Argentine men believe that Argentina is the center of the universe and thus they are the most sought after creatures in all the land. Take your standard frat of 100 popped-collared, spiked-hair, frosted-tipped douchebags, multiply it by 10 and you have the exact amount of arrogance found in your run-of-the-mill Chamuyero.

One of my students told me, flat out, that he could get any girl he wanted, at any time solely because he was an Argentine. Fascinated with this bold statement I continued to ask more questions, not knowing if I truly wanted to hear his responses. "Jorge" proceeded to tell me the that American guys don’t need to know how to talk to get a girl; they essentially just need enough coin in their pocket to make it appear that they have obtained “baller-status.” American guys can go out to a club and girls will fall for them (i.e. sleep with them), no questions asked. While I was skeptical, we continued our conversation.

Rumor has it, that in order to get a girl here (well, one worth spending more than an hour at a Telo with), Ar-gen-tinoooos need to master the gift of gab. These women, or “histericas,” tend to fall for the guys that know how to use their tongue (get your head out of the gutter!). A Chamuyero will be able convince her to leave with him, relocate to a Telo, and if he’s a veteran, persuade her best friend to join with them.

You may be asking yourself, “Laura, how have you resisted the enticing charm of the Chamuyero?” It’s quite simple... Everything coming out of their mouths is complete and utter bullshit… While bartending in college, I was exposed to every type of bullshitter you could imagine; the smooth-talker, the sweet (caring) guy, the cocky guy, and the shy guy. While Argentines may think they are unique with their persuasion abilities, there really is no difference between saying “Que linda” and “you’re smoking hot” in my book. Neither is going to work.

Having said that, I believe it is easier to snag (and keep) an American than is it to trap the “elusive” Chamuyero, and turn him into your boyfriend. I’ve seen it over and over; women chasing after these men, who in turn ask them to be in an “open-relationship” or in other words, “I’m going to sleep with you until something better comes along, then I’m going to sleep with her too, and you can’t say anything because we’re in an open-relationship.”

Do you smell that?? Ahh, I believe it’s a fresh BS sandwich… All across the world, women are obsessed with changing the "player." I'm sorry, I know it's been played out.... BUT HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU!

I do have to hand it to them though; it takes a lot of confidence (and determination) to pull off being a Chamuyero.

Ladies, you can't say I didn’t warn you and remember "Don't hate the player, hate the game."

Pshhh, and if the mood strikes you right, join in as a manipulating Chamuyera.

Besos

Boarder Jumping to Uruguay

For those of you who don’t know, I am an illegal immigrant. Phew, that feels good to say out loud! I don’t pay taxes which essentially means I have no rights; then again, I’m pretty sure I’m well below the poverty line by US standards, so does it really matter? Hey Obama, can a girl get some bailout money??! Joking aside, I recently passed 90 days here, which meant I needed a visa run to Uruguay to renew my tourist visa.

I picked up the ferry at 7:45 am on a cold and rainy fall day in Puerto Madero. An hour-long ferry ride and 3-hour bus ride later, I was in Montevideo. While I haven’t done much solo traveling, I quite enjoyed it. I won’t get too existential with you, but it’s definitely good to be alone every so often. It gave me ample “me” time, something that I’m sure I’ll have less and less of as I get older.

Right off the bat, I noticed I was actually able to understand Uruguayans; their accent is similar to Argentina, but they speak slower and pronounce their words clearly. What a novel concept!! For the first time in three months, I felt like all the tuition money spent on Spanish classes wasn’t a waste.

The second most visible difference from BA, was the Maté. I’ve discussed Maté before so here’s the short version of what it is; (Yerba) Maté is a type of loose tea that is poured into a round cup, which is typically made of wood. You then add hot water; just make sure the water hasn’t boiled or you’ll ruin the Maté. You drink it out of a straw with a filter so as to not suck up the leaves. It’s common to see people sharing Maté in a circle, as it’s more of a custom between friends and family.

Uruguayans are absolutely crazy about this stuff! They carry around their thermos full of hot water with their Maté cups, and go to town (literally). To me it seemed somewhat awkward to have your hands full when at the grocery store, mall, or street fair. Then again, I may be biased bc I’m not a huge fan of the stuff unless it’s loaded down with sugar.

Moving on. Montevideo is home to approximately 1.3 million people; you would think that they would make some sort of fuss about nothing being open on Saturdays or Sundays. I’ve gotten used to most places being closed on Sundays in BA; just make sure you get your necessary shopping out of the way during the week and it’s not a problem. Uruguay was another story completely; even national museums were closed.

So, what was a single gal supposed to do in this situation??? Eh, give this girl a map, and she’ll figure out something fun to get into! Then I found it…. a CASINO!!!! I had Vegas flashbacks of all-you-can-drink-while-losing-money and booked it towards the promise land. To say I was disappointed was an understatement. I put my 50 peso note into the machine and ended up winning 15 pesos or the equivalent to 79 cents… And the cocktail servers were passing out coffee, not booze (what??!). Even the Tropicana would put this place to shame.

Leaving the casino, cash winnings in hand, I grabbed a cab and told the driver I wanted to spend money. I don’t care where you’re from in the world; women and shopping malls are mutually exclusive and fabulous. I typically don’t have time or patience to shop in BA, thus I went a little crazy. It’s always fun using your credit card in other countries, especially when you don’t know the exchange rate. So, with each purchase it was like playing “credit card, Russian roulette.” I still haven’t looked at what I spent and probably won’t until next month…

There are times I wish BA could just stop everything; the noise, the bustling, the madness. Yet, I was surprised at how much I missed the city the second I was back on Argentine soil. Weekends away are wonderful but coming home is even better!