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

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!)

Assimilation Is A B**CH!

I often find myself wondering, "When did I become the Ugly American?"

Back during my glory days (i.e. my college years), more importantly my introduction to the global community via Semester At Sea, I first heard the word "ethnocentrism." I'm not going to point and laugh at those of you who don't know what this means, at least not while you're looking.

Here is the 'ol MacBook definition of Ethnocentrism: "the tendency to believe that one's ethnic or cultural group is centrally important, and that all other groups are measured in relation to one's own. The ethnocentric individual will judge other groups relative to his or her own particular ethnic group or culture, etc..." blah blah blah, you get the gist.

Picture someone coming down to Buenos Aires who has on a "God Bless America, and F*ck Everyone Else" t-shirt yelling "Hoorahh" (no offense Sammy-boy)... That is a prime example of ethnocentrism. While I understand that judging another culture is wrong, when you have decided to leave all your loved ones and uproot your life to a foreign country, you may have some gripes from time to time. Sometimes I feel like the "ugly-american" thinking that we have it all figured out in the states (or Canada eh). It's not my fault we have functional internet and sewer systems that actually drain water... pshh.

I have been here for a month and a half and am still working on assimilating to the Argentinean culture. First, for example, I have been dutifully observing the Argie standard for staying up late on the weekends. Yes, I had my wild nights in college, but Sports has nothing on discos that don't even open until 3:00 am. It's a difficult life to go out until sunrise, drinking champagne, and dancing all night, but someone's gotta do it; it's my cross to bear in life...

Secondly, I have slowly been acclimating myself to a quieter vocal level. Remember in grade school when your teacher obnoxiously said, "6 inch voices kids." Allegedly, I was the kid they were directing that at. My Irish roommate Jessica, first coined the phrase "American-Level" about three weeks ago. I've been told that when I get extremely excited (which tends to happen often), I raise my voice to an unreasonable level, at which time Jess corrects me. I, like my fellow North-Americans, am not aware of how loud I speak. I keep telling her that I'm one of the quietest in the Gilbert clan, but I'm not sure she believes me.

(No one used their 6 inch voices when a cockroach decided to crash on our floor. Poor taste buddy.

Now you have to die.)

Finally, I have fully accepted the fact that I will have to make do without a microwave, a freezer that is functional, and a big, comfy bed. Oh, we also have a stove that will one day singe off my eyebrows while being lit, I just know it. Nope, I'm not letting myself get sucked into negative thinking... Screw you ethnocentrism!! I can make my quesadillas in a pan, I don't like ice cream that much (bold-face lie) to need some handy in the freezer, and I curl up in a ball when I sleep anyway... Ok, the stove thing really does freak me out, so there's no candy-coating that one.

Like anyone else, living anywhere in the world, I have my good days and I have my bad days. Yet, each day I wake with excitement up wondering what kind of ridiculousness will happen that I can share with friends and family back home (my devoted readers-ha!). Whether it be a tag-team grope fest on the subte that makes me want to cry, trying new foods (both good and bad), or sharing a laugh with friends who have quickly become my support system, each day has been unique and special.

Simply put, I love it down here. With all the good, the bad, and the ugly, I am proud to call Buenos Aires home.

In a Perfect World...

**Warning: for those of you who are expecting wit this time around, you will be sadly disappointed**

When I was in college I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Some people grow up knowing exactly what they want to do, where they want to do it, etc. It's almost unfair that schools force students to decide what they want to do when they are 18 or 19 years old. I mean, when I was 18, I still thought Pitaya pants were awesome (reference to all my Carmel girls out there). The girl that I was when I was 18 isn't even a glimpse of who I am now.

From 18-24 I have made various life choices; one of which includes traveling the world. If you haven't done much traveling, I encourage you to start. There really isn't anything else like it. Whether it be by planes, trains, or automobiles, every time I have crossed another boarder I can't help but smile.

After celebrating my first month in Argentina I began to wonder why it is that I came down here. All one would need to do is open my passport(s) to see that traveling has been a huge priority in my life. But why? Is it for the rush of the unknown? Is it for the bragging rights? Or is it something deeper?

I have thus finalized my top three reasons for being down here. 1.) Spanish language and culture immersion, 2.) to step out of my comfort zone and 3.) to get others opinions out of my head. One and two are pretty self explanatory. I've found a great spanish tutor to help me work on my grammar, vocab, etc; living in Indy was killing me and I needed a huge change.

Then there is reason #3... I have always been very thick skinned which means that friends and family let their opinions be known, sometimes at my expense. Now, this isn't anything I would ever change and this is not a guilt trip, it is just a simple fact. Something I have always struggled with is letting peoples opinions dictate my actions. It may sound ridiculous, but being in Buenos Aires has helped me tune out all the noise, all the distractions, and has given me the time to be alone with my thoughts. All I need is a cigarette (kids, don't smoke), some black coffee, and my plastic rimmed glasses and I'd be a genuine hipster. Could I have achieved this in the States? Sure, but it's not as good of a story...

Here is the part where I may upset some people and for that I'm sorry, but I don't care. When I was 22, I met this person. We will call him "Sam" for all intensive purposes. So, this person was quite interesting and very intriguing. He asked for my number while I was bartending, not uncommon (I mean, I'm the cutest girl-next-door ever!), but this time I actually gave my real number. Weird. Anyhoo, we went on our first date and I knew I was screwed.

I'm not the type of girl who thinks about my wedding day or my dress, or what I want to name my kids. I am however, the type of girl who has compiled a list of attributes in my head of what I would want in my "perfect" guy. Here's the Readers Digest version: someone who grew up on a lake, attractive, blonde with blue eyes, above 6'0", can make me laugh, career oriented, close with their family, athletic, rugged on the outside and sweet on the inside (a guy's-guy if you will). Oh, and their last name starting in "S" because I want my initials to read "LEGS" (thank you 5th grade MASH games). I mean I'm not asking for much people! Unfortunately for me, all of these attributes were found in "Sam" at the absolute worst time in my life.

I'm now 24 and have kept in contact with this person despite all of the ridiculousness that should have made us stop talking. Do I realize that by talking to him I may be losing friends? Yes, but you can't live your life based on what others think, hence the reasoning behind moving. I'm 24 and can make my own decisions, gosh dangit!!

I recently received a gift from said person and it will be very difficult for others to top; it made me cry which isn't always the easiest thing to do. I'm sure Mama G will give him a run for his money in this department! I still have another 11 or so months down here and am looking forward to have this time for myself; time to be independent. Another part of me is even more excited to get back to the states to see what could happen with this person, even if that means moving to small town Indiana... (I know right?! Could there be anything worse!?!)

And for all of you "realists" out there.. Yes, I do realize that there is a chance things will not work out. But like the millions that pour into Vegas year in and year out... I've just gotta play the odds and cross my fingers for the jackpot. At some point everyone will face a situation where the rewards outweigh the risks; I stared mine in the face at Japonaise a few years ago and haven't turned back since.

Sorry, I needed to get that written down... Next post will be back to testing my comical chops! If you have taken anything away from reading this, then I have done my job.

Until next time my friends!