I am strongly opposed to the study abroad blog posts that clump time together by weeks (“Sorry for the delay- here’s a listing of what I did in week three!”), an artificial way to organize an experience that is better understood as themes or changes over time. However, in light of recent events, I will be writing an alternative version of this kind of post, modeled after Historias Extraordinarias, a four-hour film by Mariano Llinás I watched for my New Argentine Cinema class. The movie, adapted from a book by Roald Dahl, is three unconnected extraordinary stories told with the help of narrators. I can see the connection to my life in Argentina, as my chaotic life in Buenos Aires has taken a turn for the absurd over the past few weeks. Here I present three of my most extraordinary tales:
1 – Foot in Bus: I was on my way to see an apartment my family was thinking about renting for when they come to visit. I was running late and I saw the bus I needed to take at its stop. I run to the bus and am able to get my foot onto the platform just as the door is shutting. There is about two inches of rubber on the bottom of the door, so while I am not in pain, I cannot get my foot out and the bus has started to move. With the weight of my backpack pulling me the opposite direction, I grab onto the handles on the side of the door and hope for the best. Thankfully, a woman inside the bus sees me (how could you miss a girl riding on the side of the bus) and screams at the driver to stop.
2 – The Tickets: My friends Haley and Katie have been working hard to plan this South American travel extravaganza at the beginning of December in which we would travel to Machu Picchu as well as parts of Peru, Bolivia, and Chile. A common theme of our time in Buenos Aires is the challenge of purchasing plane tickets—prices are different online and in the travel office, depending nationality and residency designations, and related to the currency you use to pay. We had to go personally to all the potential airlines to ask about prices; by far the best discussion was when we found out we could avoid the 20% Argentine foreign airline tax by pretending (either using internet or ambiguous phone number) to be in Chile.
The weather was particularly bad that day—Buenos Aires was experiencing Berta, a large storm of some kind that was consequential enough to get a name. We decided to check one last airline, LAN, and found out their prices were almost half of what we thought we would have to pay. I was with Katie, and we knew that we had to book and pay for the tickets that day. In Argentina, I always pay in cash and use a service where I send myself money to take advantage of a significantly better exchange rate. I only had a copy of my passport (you need your real passport to get money) and not enough money with me, so I decided to send the money to Katie. We head over to the place where we get money and wait, and wait, and wait. Katie returns to the LAN office and buys her ticket, and we are still unclear what has happened and why my money is not going through. Our reservation, which guarantees the great price for the tickets, is only good until the office closes at the end of the day.
Very confused, I return home to see if I have enough money and to get my ATM card. Upon looking at the money service online, I discover my account has been frozen—has someone stolen my number? Is my bank account suddenly empty? My initial thoughts are panicked. I call the customer service number (the hold song is “Don’t Worry About a Thing, Be Happy” by Bob Marley on repeat), and it appears that sending money to my friend was enough to set off their alert system. After a frustrating series of conversations (“You’re in Buenos Aires but your bank account is in the United States?” “You weren’t carrying your passport on you at all times?”), I am able to cancel the problematic transaction and resend myself the money. At this point, it is 4:45 p.m.—money takes between 30-45 minutes to be ready for pick up, the ticket office closes at 6 p.m., and I am at home 30 minutes away.
I grab all the money I have at home and run for the bus—forgetting my umbrella and thus getting the full wrath of Berta—and get on. I get a text message from Katie that between the two of us at that moment, we have enough to buy my ticket but I need to get to the LAN office right away. I find a cab and make it to the LAN office in nine minutes (this is insanely fast) and though dripping with water, I am able to buy the ticket. Katie and I then go back to the money place, where my money is ready at 5:30.
3 – The Returned Wallet: One Saturday a few weeks ago, I went out on a date and had my first burrito in almost three months—though it was not at Qdoba or Chipotle standards, I was still quite happy. I thought where we were sitting was fairly closed off, so I put my purse on the ground. As I am doing it, I think, Oh, this should be fine, nothing bad will happen.
I have been told as a student in Latin America that as soon as I begin to get comfortable and letting my guard down, something bad will happen. And it did—not long after, I realize my bag is missing. I now have no phone, keys, or wallet (complete with Visa card) and it is almost midnight on a Saturday. The situation is further complicated because the woman I live with, Delfi, told me she was most likely going to a Halloween party and would not be home, so going right home was not an option. I don’t know anyone’s phone number from memory, and the guy I was with and I are unable to find any wifi connection to send a message to Delfi nor my parents. Eventually, I get home, just thankful that nothing more serious has happened. I am very thankful that I was with someone (public thank you to Sebastian for handling this situation much better than I could have) and not by myself.
I start the process of replacing all the items that were in the wallet. On Monday, I went to school for my Spanish grammar class and stopped in the computer lab to check my email afterwards. I have an email from one of the program coordinators that someone has found my wallet—how could this be? Turns out the emergency card from my study abroad program, which has phone numbers and contacts should someone find us (or our wallets) in trouble, came in handy. A doorman found my wallet thrown on the side of the street and called the emergency line. Haley and I head over to where he works, unclear what exactly has been recovered.
When we get there, we meet Oskar the doorman, who happily gives me my wallet back. After as profuse of a thank you as I can give in Spanish (I repeat muchisimas gracias a dozen times), I assess the situation: I have no money nor metro card, but everything else—my credit card, student ID, almost completed free frozen yogurt card—is still there.