Profesora o Prostituta??

Let me first begin by saying I am not a prostitute in Buenos Aires, and if were, I definitely wouldn’t be charging a measly 35 pesos an hour; however there are many parallels between being an ESL teacher and a high class call girl (think less Bunny Ranch more Heidi Fleiss).

My students are predominantly men; a high-powered lawyer who made partner at the age of 30, a president of a multinational company, others are directors at one of the most lucrative petrol company in Argentina. They’re essentially the crème de la crème; they play polo and are members at swanky country clubs, they dine at all the hot restaurants, they have houses in other countries... Their lives are filled with champagne, caviar, and luxurious vacations around the world.

One reoccurring theme among all of these men is that they each requested a female teacher; my boss told me that most of her male customers only feel comfortable with women. One possible explanation for this could be because they are able to be more adventurous while still feeling vulnerable (ahhh, I’m nearing the connection). Bonus: blondes with American accents are a commodity down here, get them while they're hot (and young)!!

Anyway, this is where I fit in. From the second we close the door, I go to work. Three months into this job, and I’ve already learned how each student ticks. I have some who prefer me to dress in business attire, others who like jeans a t-shirt. Some men like to jump right into the nitty-gritty while others need to be coerced into starting. I have a few men who at the end of class simply want complain about their job, their wives, stress, etc; I’m more or less the big spoon in our relationship.

Day in and day out, I sit there with a smile plastered across my face, encouraging them, making them feel special; “you’ve almost got it, that’s perfect, don’t give up, you’re not tired.” I think you get the gist… Even in the most painfully boring classes, I have to be their personal cheerleader and damn it, it is exhausting!

It’s funny how many of them have said they can talk to me about things they can’t talk about with their wives (more so because their wives don’t speak English, but that definitely sounds like a line you’d say to a hooker). I’m able to understand them a certain way and fill their needs like no one else (ie, their “needs” being a native English speaker).

Next would be the gifts. I’ve had my students come to class with a slew of things for me. I’ve received chocolates, candies, and ice cream; we’ve gone for espressos (at YPF), one brought a beautiful flower, another offered primo fútbol tickets (and then extended a personal tour of River Plate stadium), the lawyer gave me a taxi ride to my front door. Finally, one is going all the way to the United States just to fetch me some Jif peanut butter… Ok, he’s going for a golf trip, buuut he’s still bringing me back a piece of home, so that should count for something.

Each one of my students leave class with a sense of satisfaction; I have done my job and made them feel like “the man,” even if I needed to picture a great pair of boots the entire time to get through it... I, in turn, leave class with cash in my hand, exhausted and dreading my upcoming appointment… See what I’m talking about? The similarities are abundant with all “working girls,” but don't worry, I'll leave turning tricks to the real professionals.

(An ESL teacher needs to be poised and able to wear many hats. The picture above shows just one of my many talents)

Where's the Wiggle Room Buddy!?

I need to preface this by saying that I absolutely love living in Buenos Aires, and if I had to do it over, I wouldn’t change a thing. My days are just marvelous; good food, great friends, students who talk back (yes, I view that as a positive thing). All in all, my life down here is sunshine, rainbows, and purry-purry kittens (big ups to the maker of one of my favorite childhood toys).

My days generally start out flawless. I wake up, get ready for work, quickly check my email (crossing my fingers for a cancelled class or something from my sweet-ums back in the US of A), and head out for the day. It takes me exactly 7 minutes (when hustling) to walk from 4836 Nicaragua to Plaza Italia, Subte Linea D.

Seeing as I’m not a morning person, I usually put my “Spanish Music” mix on the ‘ol iPod that way I’m ignoring the creepies and brushing up on my Spanish. However, I have started to learn simple Spanish lip reading from said creepies; surprisingly, seeing someone say “buenos dias linda” is a nice pick-me-up in the wee hours of the am (and by “wee” I mean 7:15).

Before I take my first step into the subway, I wish I could say I still give myself a mental pep talk. “Ok LG, this time things will be different, this time you wont end up hot, sweaty, and pissed off...” No no… Those days have long passed and I have come to accept the fact that the subte is my own personal, living hell.

I also wish I could compare the subte to a sardine can, but that doesn’t do it enough justice. Linea D is like a middle-aged woman trying to wiggle herself into skinny jeans and a cropped top, four children and many drive-thrus later... It’s uncomfortable, it’s sticky, and it makes you want to barf.

My wonderful mornings are quickly jolted to reality the second I’m shoved onto the subway for the 28 minute ride into Microcentro. I understand that the general population, like me, is on their way to work, and for this they deem it acceptable to shove complete strangers into the closing doors of the subway. All I'm saying is watch where you’re pushing POR FAVOR!! Once on the subway I’m like a crack head, constantly checking out the people who are breathing their foul Mate breath on me. “Hey buddy, are you grabbing your phone or are you trying to cop a little feel??!! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

When I get off at “L.N. Alem,” just a few blocks from work, and breath the fresh crisp air outside, I quickly forget all the stress and hassle I’ve been through during my morning commute and am reminded of why I moved here (the meat, the men, the liquor, and the legalized marijuana-----kidding!!!!). At some point, I'll snap a picture of how crowded the subte gets, but that would require moving my arms during rush hour... Pretty sure that won't be happening anytime soon!

Welcome to living in Buenos Aires little one.

(squishing avocados by hand for whatever reason, to make some guac for Mexican-night!)