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).