Bienvenidos a Texas!

The warm smell of Texas hits me like a baseball bat as I descend from the plane onto domestic soil. It beats me over and over and I try to run back inside, but as the cabin is congested with people and their bags, I have no choice but to march on under the assault through the little plane-to-gate tunnel. My muscles finally relax in the refrigerated comfort of the airport, although the missing teeth have left my gums still hurting. Back in Houstonlandia.

Apart from that, I find the readjustment to my birth town completely non-threatening. Customs asks nothing about the newly purchased technology I´m bringing in (including an undeclared camera and laptop). And I find myself surprisingly apathetic to the North American culture of consumption. I even revel in small acts of consumption, like buying name brand items of junk food, loading ketchup onto my lunches, and eating butter, which, since there are no cuttings of roads in protest of controversial government policies, gets delivered to supermarkets in large quantities and costs less than ten dollars. I don´t let myself be bothered by our famous car traffic, choosing often to ride the bus.

I hop on the bus this week to go to my mom´s house. The driver makes a friendly comment about the bike I´ve set up on the rack in front. It rides mostly empty except for a mom with two boys and a teen couple.

The bus goes through all of the suburbs that are west Houston. Schools, supermarkets, one- and two-story homes, a post office, and the new zone of gated communities near my high school. My gaze wanders up to the posters they put over the aisle. One of them pictures George Foreman. He is speaking for the ´´I Ride´´ movement: a new campaign to convince riders to cut down traffic by taking the bus.

This, for Houston, is revolutionary. This is the kind of movement that I´ve been wanting to happen ever since middle school when I started thinking about global warming and how much the city sucks. It makes the connection between cutting down on gas use and public transportation in one of the country´s most oil- and car-loving cities. It´s simple but necessary and has taken a long time coming.

I Ride. Unfortunately the campaign´s naming has been inspired by the ´´I´´ Branding trend that was started by the Ipod. Before going to Argentina I would have been repulsed by the Metro bus system´s choice of wording, reading in it a subtle promotion of narcissism to sell a service. But something in me has changed. Now: The proliferation of the ´´I´´ prefix = a symbol of reveration of every person, no matter who they are. An appreciation of however an individual chooses to present him/herself.

Dare I even consider the ´´I´´ prefix an example of democracy in the North American cultural industry? It´s a laugh to try to do so with the case of the Ipod; those little apparatuses cost like 200 dollars I think, and 1800 pesos in Buenos Aires. The availability of all songs, those units of personal expression which teens select meticulously and arrange as an attempt to define themselves, is only possible for a relatively small group of upper-class kids in the world.

I would venture to call the Metro bus system ´´democratic´´ because it´s so much more affordable; a ride costs a buck. (A laptop, by comparison, costs 1800 pesos at the cheapest.)

...........
I guess I´ve never been in personal harmony. A lot of things have made me feel shitty: being estranged from my family, witnessing people´s relationship problems, avoiding relationships, and not having a perfect body.

I guess I never will be in personal harmony. But I will be whole. That is the fate that I am creating for myself. I cannot split my body to be in Buenos Aires and the States at the same time. The light that´s coming down on my hands is undeniably that of the Texas summer sun. But if I close my eyes, a different light glows out in the dark. I see the intersection lined with stores of Córdoba and Corrientes, the alamo trees on the road to Neuquén, the orange stop button on the 29 bus line that runs through San Telmo. Everything is remembered.

Cómo escuchar a tu madre

My mom came to visit me here after all. To realize what a big deal this is, you´d have to factor in that she hadn´t been to Buenos Aires for about ten years, and that the last time she was here she got very bipolar and things went to shit. Nonetheless, I really wanted her here with me, and I think that what finally convinced her to get the plane ticket was me getting upset enough with her about not coming to put our relationship on the line over it. Sometimes being bitchy with other people really does get you what you want. (That´s a lesson that I learned from her.)

Anyways, her decision to come was as abrupt as all of her decisions are. She actually called me a week or so before the date of her arrival and announced the fact. Then a couple of days before her arrival to say that my little sister was coming too! My stammered Spanglish did not do enough to express to her over the phone how freaking excited I was for them to come.

The two of them stayed at Mama´s friend´s house in Belgrano and fell into whirlwind of meetings with Mama´s friends and family in the city, which was parted by our visit to Neuquén, where one of her cousins lives.

The micro ride there, and really the entire week, were uncharted territory for us. If we had done such a trip in the States, my sister and I would have been giving my mom hell. I.e. throwing wads of paper at her while she snored and yammering on and on at her about nonsense and the grossness of the pudding desserts that they served us on the bus. Because we could. But here the power relationships were inverted. My mom could respond in quick witty Spanish to whatever we said to her, so we contented ourselves with just a little bit of conversation and generally bent to her will. I wonder if the teenage girl with the seat between us noticed anything odd in how polite my sister and I were with her. I mean please, she´s our mother. A little bit of hell would be in order, no?

The politeness carried into the long and noisy meals we had with her/our cousins and great-aunt in Neuquén. I listened to their childhood stories, which I liked, and equally to my mother lie about my grandparents (her ex-inlaws). Not a single critical remark from my part. The only thing that fished me out of my serene silence was when Guillermo, Mama´s oldest cousin, baited me with talk of U.S. politics. Some of my thoughts on Obama were presented. Maybe I came off as an interesting person. (?)

After Neuquén we went on a trip to Villa Pehuenia, a ski town in the mountains. The ride there was memorable… my sister and I asked to stop on a snowy road to take pictures; when we got back in the car we realized that the only direction it would go was down the mountain. Thank you icy roads. My cousin Eduardo struggled for half an hour in the freezing cold to put chains on the tires.

Finally we made it to the cabin, which sat by an enormous, placid, grey lake. With the snow blowing everywhere and all of us in our floofy one-piece snowsuits, it felt like the scene from the first Harry Potter book. You know, where Harry and the family go to the most abandoned location possible to try to escape the blizzard of letters and Hagrid, who are trying to get Harry to go to Hogwarts? The ambiance was fabulous. Of course we had to go to the water and take about a million pictures. Then we went back inside and stuffed our faces with food.

Afterwards we went to the village, where I allowed Mama to buy me a t-shirt that says ´´Villa Pehuenia´´ on it. Then we went back and had dinner. It was satisfying to watch the TV coverage of the Vice President Cobos, who voted against Cristina Kirchner´s plan for the retenciones. Those are the taxes on the agricultural sector about which there have been so many protests. The fam was and is very critical of Cristina. Then I went to bed at about 8:30 p.m. Because I could.

The next day was going to get us back to the ciudad Neuquén on time to catch the micro bus back to Buenos Aires. With the putting on of chains, the flat tire, and the endlessness of gas station snack breaks, we made it late. But Gerardo is a able politician and talked the kids at the bus company office into giving us free replacements on the tickets, so we made it back to Bs. As. on the same day as was originally planned. My sister and I watched parts of the great movie about androids that they showed on the ride. There´s this one really epic scene where this motorcycle dude-y android is chained up to this very feminine-looking man android in the middle of the desert and they have to make it somewhere together and they get grumpy and have a battle.

Realizations: I actually have a family. Neat. and Hey! Now I know where my mom gets her wackiness from!! The latter after witnessing half of her family go chase after loose sheep on the side of the road while Edu was fixing the flat.

***

On Thursday I said goodbye to Serena, the friend at whose house my mom was staying. We met at the Universidad de las Madres, where she works.

Serena is the kind of person who I think has the capacity to love everything and everyone. She invited me to her house last year when I was here alone and burst into tears over how much she missed my mom. She overlooked my awkwardness that day. And when I came this semester with the study abroad program, she insisted on calling me even after I ignored her phone calls. Why did I do that? Because I didn´t think she would like me. How silly. When she finally reached me and we met again, she loved me as much as always.

Serena met me in the bookstore of the university that day with a book on the history of the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo, which she then took and had autographed for me by Hebe de Bonafini, one of the leaders of the group. A total sweetheart. She knew that it would mean a lot to me. Then we went upstairs and she showed me the cool paintings that hang all around the building. We saw the classroom where she teaches and also the library, which is pretty big, and photographs taken by art students.

After the tour we sat down and had a coffee in the university café. Sadly Serena had to rush away to class then, but I´m glad I got to see her at least for a while. And it won´t be the last time. Because Mama´s coming back.

But first I´m going back to the States.

En mi casita

Baaack. Excuse the absence. I just lost myself in the Real world for a bit too long. There´s really been a lot of essentially unbloggable things going on in my life for the past few weeks: things between friends and resi kids, partying things, beautiful things, teloh things, watching movie things (which get written about on IMDB), and studying-ish things. It feels good to be here again.

Reflecting on how things were a few months ago, I realize that some things have changed. Basically I´ve lost the standards of quality and intellectual exigency I thought were an inseparable part of me. This realization underlined the preparation leading up to my final exam for Argentine and Latinamerican Social History at UBA. Here´s what I did: read the assigned class readings for the second or third time, looked at a list of Argentine presidents that my tutor sent me, and handwrote three pages of notes on the Saenz-Peña Law (which made the vote in Argentina universal, obligatory and secret for males) and Radicalism (referring to the Union Cívica Radical party of Argentina). I passed because I´m an exchange student who´s paying specially to go to UBA and because the professor who gave me the oral exam was charmed by my ability to talk about Obama. Though mostly he did the talking.

So now I´m thinking about why I wasn´t able to expand more on the questions I was asked during the exam. Partly it´s because I wasn´t raised in Argentina. Also because I´ve spend a lot of time here going to boliches, recovering through sleep, and downloading free shit. And because when I go to my grandparents apartment in San Telmo (the only place available to me that’s 24/7 quiet) I end up eating ice cream and watching Susana Jimenez on TV. Google this woman: she’s one of the most famous celebs in the country, has her own talk show, and looks like a queen. She´s a truly fascinating construction… I wish she would march in the samba dance-parade that goes by the apartment on Sunday afternoons. That way I could shoot her from above with water pistols and feel that something was accomplished.

But there´s something bigger I can blame for my sense of personal failure, and that´s the the population of non-Northamerican exchange students at the residencia. Those of them who made conversation with me are excused from the criticism.

The rest of them basically seemed to be saying: Shut up and dance! Over and over. Play! Drink at the bar that we´ve specially chosen to go to tonight!

Sure, playing is lovely. Undoubtedly. But there´s a point when the playing turns into lying. This is when I´d rather have someone explain something to me or listen to me than just surrender everything to the moment.

And speaking of moments:

Last night as I was hurrying out of the resi I saw him, smoking casually against an old car parked by the curb. In spite of the fact that his shirt was fully buttoned and his hair ungelled, I recognized him instantly. Andrés. The law student from the Universidad Católica.

He glanced upwards, just barely, as if anticipating a remark. The ensuing silence did not bother him enough to make him stir. His body kept its place as I swept past, laughing with a friend behind at back, maybe telling him about things that never happened between us last March. Why hadn´t the aspiring lawyer disappeared forever? Nothing in the residencia is worth coming back for if you haven´t got any real friends there.

No answers. None still. Just him, waiting for another hot body to wrap itself around his.

It´s so good to be back to where I feel some sort of integrity can be achieved.

Notas acerca del Nuevo Periodismo

Last Sunday was pretty special. I ended up going to listen to Tom Wolfe, the author of The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test and more, the Father of New Journalism, go speak at MALBA (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires). Sorry, I will only end up using two of the four techniques of New Journalism for this entry. But given people´s limited attention spans, that may not be so bad.

I showed up to the museum in a taxi and circulated the building on foot before ´´appearing´´ nonchalantly and meeting up in the waiting line with the super awesome editor from the exchange program´s magazine, who is a journalism student and interested in Tom Wolfe, and her equally awesome boyfriend. We chatted about artistic grants, Hillary vs. Obama, and el Nuevo cine argentino. Okay so actually there she talked and I nodded. Yes, New argentine cinema disrespects the actor´s importance. Yes. Of course I´m familiar with the movement, nod, nod. Naturally.

Entering the auditorium… some people picking up headphones to hear Tom Wolfe´s speech translated to Spanish. The place is packed. A lady from the United States embassy introduces him. Wow, he fits perfectly the description that the Clarín´s Ñ magazine gave of him. A ´´dandy.´´ He´s wearing exactly the same outfit as he did for their interview. A white coat, white pants, blue shirt. He could have brought a cane and a top hat. He could be sipping iced tea on an old porch in the summertime. Anyways, his suit is very bright under the stage lights. The man is a vision…

Tom does a brief salutation in Spanish that includes a little joke about coins being in short demand here and comments on how nice it was to be in a country where you get to kiss pretty girls upon first meeting them. Then he confesses in English to knowing almost no Spanish, which didn´t stop him from being assigned as a young correspondent to cover Castro´s coming to power in Cuba in 1959. Lucky him! How did he survive?

Then Tom tells about the techniques of New Journalism.
These are the four techniques of New Journalism:
1. Scene by scene construction of the story.
2. Use of as much dialogue as possible.
3. The notation of character´s status details, such as their ways of dress, their furniture, and how they talk to superiors and inferiors.
4. Using a specific point of view. As in, telling the story through the eyes of one character.

Tom exhorts poets to ´´get out of the apartment!´´ I think that by that, he means
that he thinks that some poets don´t get out into the Real World enough.

So I am totally intrigued by his elaboration of the third technique: ¨I am convinced that we all live lives determined by status considerations… by how we look in the eyes of other people.¨

I am wearing flannel, Levi jeans, and beat up Saucony tennis shoes. I am sitting next to the magazine editor. She is taking notes like me, though not as many, and chuckling a bit during parts of the speech. She likes to wear a lot of black.

Tom Wolfe also says that he thinks that you get ´´status points´´ every time that you get information that you didn´t know before. For example, this happens when you figure out instructions on how to get places in Buenos Aires. I think this happens a lot everywhere.

Finally the speech is turned over to a question and answer segment with the public. I know just what I want to ask him!! I raise my hand, and La Editor suggests I go up to the front of the auditorium to where the people in charge the mike were. So I do. I stand there and look out over the crowd. Everyone looking forward at Tom. Some guy asks an insanely convoluted question about translation and democracy and justice and Tom´s latest book… I think, maybe, I don´t know. It sounds like an interesting question. Like the kind where the questioner just wants to show how much he knows. Tom needs a lot of translation help understanding the question. I think that he exhibits some nervous laughter. Some people in the audience try to clarify what is meant by the question.


So I stand there smiling like an exchange student (who is too pleasant with people for her own good because she just wants to come across as an amiable person, who is who she actually is most of the time in the States) while people ask a whole lot more questions. I tell the lady who had held the mike before it had gone on its journey around the auditorium that I want to talk, to ask Tom a question in English.

At this point La Editor´s boyfriend is beside me telling people the people that seemed to be in charge that I should be allowed to talk. ´´She´s been standing this whole time!´´

The mike never comes back. It is announced at last that there is only time for two more questions. I talk to the lady who announced that and say I want to talk.

She asks: What paper am I from? I say I am just speaking for myself.

The second to last question is asked.

The last question, the lady said, is reserved for La Nación.

The question was asked, a satisfactory enough answer was given, and applause, and Tom was gone forever. I was cheated. The question was going to be great. I was going to look into his eyes and state clearly:
So, Tom, I thought that your explanation of the third technique was pretty fascinating, and, uh, I just wanted to know… How often to you think of how you look in the eyes of other people?

Tom Wolfe was going to understand me perfectly.

Motherfucker. The lesson of the story is, the questions were never truly free and open to the public. It was planned in advance who would be chosen to answer. The biggest newspapers got their quotes. Quotes that, although they must have held emotional value for the journalists that recorded them, (I would wager) held less value than one quote would have held for me. Quotes from a guy who understands English marvelously and Spanish not very well and who said so himself that when works of his are translated, he doesn´t feel like they came from him.

25 de marzo, 2008

My eyes were caught by an advertisement in the newspaper some weeks ago, the clipping of which by now shares a grave with the alfajor wrappers with which I was keeping it. It was a sort of announcement for La Federación Argentina de Trabajadores Pasteleros, Confiteros, Heladeros, Pizzeros y Alfajoreros, or, translated, the Argentine Workers´ Federation of Pastrymen, Candymen, Ice Cream Men, Pizzamen, and Alfajormen. This mouthful of a name calls for quite a lot of ink and space, maybe explaining the absence of a detailed description of the objectives of the group, which is, simply put, a sindicato. A workers´ union.

If it were possible to marry into sindicatos, this one would be my first choice. How sweet it would be! My Dessert Man and I in the kitchen, me boiling cans of condensed milk, him mixing up the butter, sugar, egg, and flour for the alfajor wafers... all before going off to a union meeting where agreements would be made quickly because everyone would just be so jolly all of the time. Ahh. ... Our children would be tiny like Pillsbury Doughboys and smell of cinnamon and sugar.

Since the union´s offices are in the same neighborhood as one of the UBA Ciencias Sociales buildings that I´m coursing at, I thought I would drop by one afternoon and do an absolutely fabulous interview with one of their representatives regarding their take on current events. But upon arriving at the front door of their building, I chickened out.

It wasn´t just the language barrier that stopped me from carrying on, but rather, my general ignorance to the level and complexity of the controversy that surrounds those events. Namely, the events that occurred on the night of Tuesday, March 25, when president Cristina Kirchner defended the national government´s new plan for higher retenciones (export taxes) on agricultural products, which would mean less profit for producers. People in Buenos Aires took to the streets banging pots, and a big group of the protesters marched to the Plaza de Mayo, where there were confrontations with counterprotesters. These actions were intended to show support (and alternately, non-support) for ¨el campo¨ -- that being the farmers who were protesting the higher retenciones by cutting roads across Argentina.

The road cuts definitely had their effect on the city. Suddenly fruits and meat were in short supply because trucks couldn´t ship them in from farms. They were being stopped at various points across the country. The kitchen at the residencia informed us that some foods wouldn´t be available for the next few days. I could have been upset, but honestly it wasn´t a big deal. As a student in the FLACSO international exchange program, I´m allowed to have a refrigerator in my room. I could buy the food I wanted at a supermarket, at a price that wouldn´t be too high for an American, and store it.

This difference between me and other people who live in Buenos Aires, that of economic resources, is part of what keeps me feeling like an outsider. This feeling, in turn, kept me from talking with the Alfajor Men´s union and from jumping into the cacerolazos (the pot-banging protests) on March 25, as sorry as I felt for farmers who would be making less of a profit because of the government´s new plans. But the feeling can´t all be traced back to the issue of money, though. My lack of understanding about local politics, what with its multiple parties and interest groups, also differentiates me. Interestingly, the dimension of differentness that I first experienced way back last summer -- that of being an American citizen in Argentina -- did lead me to become involved in an incident in the mini-politics of the student residencia.

Being one of the group of American exchange students, I was invited to a meeting one night to discuss an issue that was thought pertained especially to us. My friend spoke over the phone: ¨Come down to my room. We´re going to demand that we get our fridges.¨

Fridges, at the time, were lacking in all of the rooms. The residencia administration had removed them before I got here this semester and sold many of them away. But part of the contract that our group of American exchange students had signed said that we´d have personal fridges. People were complaining about the unkept promise, big time, at that town hall meeting.

We must have been an amusing sight to see. Maybe eight or nine of us in one room, my friend´s roommate gone, everyone trying to get their word in. Fighting for our rights against the man! ¨The man¨ being the broke-ass residencia.

I understood my American friends´ argument, but I was still not into demanding the fridges back. How could it be fair for us to have them and everyone else – all of the international students from Europe and South America – not? All that made it ¨fair¨ was the big payment that FLACSO made to the resi, which came out of the package that was paid by us for the complete exchange student program, which includes housing, food, cultural activities, and academic counseling.

The way that they wanted to get the fridges back was to talk to one of the exchange program directors and get her to speak to the residencia, asking them nicely to ¨return¨ to us the fridges. Some of the people more concerned about the thoughts and wants of the non-American-exchange-student residents suggested that we ask her to ask the resi to give them fridges too. The problem that I saw in this was that once we entered into negotiations with her, she really wouldn´t have the power to ask something from the resi for people who weren´t in the program. But the fact that we, the exchange students, are the reason that she gets a paycheck would mean that she´d see it as her duty to assure that we did get the fridges.

In support of these thoughts was the secret that my roommate, who is not a FLACSO kid, had heard about from one of the ladies and the concierge and told me – that the FLACSO kids were already about to get the fridges back. I suppose the one or two kids had complained a little already, and that was enough to get the program director started on correcting the resi´s error.

So. My point of view was, in short that we should push for all or nothing. Either we the Americans along with some non-Americans demand the fridges collectively, or we keep our mouths shut and live without fridges like everyone else. Any other action would amount to voluntarily setting ourselves as a group apart because of our economic resources. It could be alienating, I thought.

No one else agreed with me, so I left the meeting early. In some very few days, the American kids (including me) had our fridges. Maybe that´s all that I could´ve expected. Maybe that´s just how things run: the Ameicans who pay a lot get nice accommodations. This seems to be reinforced in the resi´s bilingual website. The English ¨translated¨ text says that all rooms are equipped with refrigerators, while the Spanish text says nothing about them.

Another difference that I feel is the gap between me and a full understanding of Argentine national politics. There are so many elements here that don´t exist in the States. There are, for example, the sindicatos, who tend to be generally Peronist (I think??). There are the piqueteros, some of whom are supported by the Kirchners (Cristina and her husband Nestor, the previous president), and who in turn support them. Although the Kirchners could be classified as Peronist. The piqueteros at least seem to be heard about outside of Argentina; I know I´ve seen a documentary or two about them shown in English. They are the famous guys who cut roads. But not the same ones that cut the roads this time! What some people don´t know is that piquetero bosses are the ones who are really make alliances with Kirchner. The people under their leadership more just tend to follow along. The whole structure is pretty hierarchical.

That night of the cacerolazos, a piquetero hit a sindicalista. His bloody face was all over the television news. But, as you might now realize, it takes a whole lot more than images to understand the all of the ¨why¨ behind that act of violence.

In answer to the question of whether or not I expected violence as I emerged from the subway station on March 25, watching the gathering mass with their pots and spoons, I´d say no. I didn´t expect much of anything. I just leaned my heavy backback against an empty corner café table and mused, kind of surprised to see so many city dwellers shouting for ¨el campo.¨

I was different. I couldn´t join in the protests, as sorry as I feel for farmers who are working so hard to make a living.

But you know? Something inside of me recognized the situation. I´d been witness to marches with a similar feel in America. There was something behind my surprise at so many people being out there banging their nice and shiny pots to bits, something on which I couldn´t quite place my finger until a girl in my UBA social history lecture class shared her thoughts out loud the next week.

Girl (approximated quote): ¨I think it´s tragic that it was almost exclusively the middle class that went out to the cacerolazos. It´s like… do we need a crisis this big… huge protests… to get us to show support for people in el campo? I got all of these text messages from my friends excitedly inviting me to go out and march. But what for? Most people seemed not to know very deeply why they were going. There was a class consciousness seriously lacking. The actions seemed to be empty of real meaning.¨

I wanted to tell her Yes! You´ve spoken my mind! And give this girl an applause. It takes guts to be critical of student action at UBA. I would say that it takes guts at my college in the States, too. But criticism and self-reflection is necessary, if we really want to work towards the equality that we´re supposedly fighting for. So many times I´ve seen well-intentioned, privileged, often white kids be the ones to get out and get loud in support of marginalized immigrant groups and wondered how much was really understood about the problems that these groups experience. Sometimes the split between the representers and the represented is funny, sometimes it´s alienating, and sometimes it forces me to choose with what side I most identify. The marginalized, or the empowered? And always I wonder, what are some ways to bridge the differences between the two groups? How much hope is there really? There must be some way...

Perhaps I should just take it easy and go share alfajores and coffee with some fellow UBA students.

Correcciones

The author would like to correct the names of two previously mentioned alfajores.

Catchafatzes are actually Cachafatzes. Jorgelines do not exist. However, Jorgitos can be found almost anywhere.

Additionally, it has not been confirmed that the Terrabusi brand actually has ten or more flavors.

The author maintains that due to time constraints, she is unable to do very much editing or fact-checking on entries. Furthermore, she hopes that the inevitable error or two will be seen not as a distortion of truth, but rather, a representation of the foot-in-mouth reality that she experiences on a daily basis.

Anuncio para alfajores

The ladies who clean our rooms at the residencia threw out my bag of alfajor wrappers.

I suppose they didn´t see why they should be of any value to me. The wrappers´ crunchy, sweet contents were gone, so they could be safely disposed of, the ladies must have assumed. Assumed. Without considering that, perhaps, their owner had sustained an emotional and aesthetic attachment to them.

Now the sweaters of those Bon a Bons, Catchafatzes, Terrabusis, Pepitos, Aguilas, and Jorjelines that I savored are gone forever, leaving me nothing to remember them by but empty names and their copies in kioscos. Yes, I could get more. I could take for inspiration what my cousin who lives in Florida did on her last visit here: buy several dozen of different brands at a gas station and fly them to America. But I´m not really interested in trying each kind more than once, and neither do I buy a ton of alfajores just to have the taste of chocolate in my mouth. The first time tasting a new kind of alfajor is always the best; it´s an experience that brings the eater in union with that one Bon a Bon´s, Terrabusi´s, or whoever´s unique qualities.

The Catchafatz, for example, is soft and indulgent. It is your mother´s soothing talk after a hard day. It´s best after spending a hot afternoon in your backpack and coupled with a glass of milk.

Terrabusi is all of the contrary – a hammer. Dry. Heavy. Defiant. I´m not so crazy about Terrabusis, but for the angry eater, they´re ideal. Crunch crunch crunch. Eat some more. Maybe your problems will go away. Have another. There´s at least ten varieties.

Jorgelín is more of a simple guy. He´s chocolate, powdered, or strawberry, nada más, for the price of only one peso. Jorge is who I turn to in the café of the Ramos Mejía social sciences building of the UBA, just before class, for a little bit of consolation or advice. What does Jorge say? Normally: ¨Go grab a seat in front of the class, fatty, so that you can hear the professor.¨ or ¨Smoke a cigarette.¨ So I do. And it feels good.

But NEVER as good as trying a new alfajor.