By Graham
Poop, poop, poop, this city is all about poop. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere. All day long you have to look where you put your feet. One moment you could be walking, and the next you could be sliding. We are having a contest to see who can make it the longest without stepping in poop. Dad is already out.
If you were to put all the poop in Buenos Aires in one mound, it would probably be about 10,000 feet high. Just hope a passing plane doesn't run into it. That would be an awful mess. I have never seen this much poop in my life. This city would be perfect if there were no poop.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
I Scream, You Scream, My Mom Stole My Ice Scream!
By Katharine
One night, we all went out for ice cream at Freddo's. The inside of the shop is small and has a big counter that takes up most of the room. There were only three other people. One little girl had a bowl of ice cream a few inches tall. We thought we could ask for a smaller scoop but then we found out that it was the smallest size. When it was our turn, my dad got raspberry. It was a pinkish color. My brother got wild berry, which was light pink with big purple chunks. I chose dulce de leche, which was light brown. Our dad went over to order in espanol. We took our helados outside. First, we tried Graham's. It tasted like a bunch of fruit put together to make a slushy. Then, we had my dad's. It tasted like a sour raspberry. Finally, we tried mine. It was all caramel, so creamy and smooth my mom went psycho for it. I asked her why she did not buy her own. She said she thought that it would be too much ice cream. She then told me that my ice cream was leaking, which I think was a lie because she just wanted more. I started screaming at her because she wouldn't give me my ice cream back, so I only got a half. My mom was like a dog with a bone. I feared for my life.
One night, we all went out for ice cream at Freddo's. The inside of the shop is small and has a big counter that takes up most of the room. There were only three other people. One little girl had a bowl of ice cream a few inches tall. We thought we could ask for a smaller scoop but then we found out that it was the smallest size. When it was our turn, my dad got raspberry. It was a pinkish color. My brother got wild berry, which was light pink with big purple chunks. I chose dulce de leche, which was light brown. Our dad went over to order in espanol. We took our helados outside. First, we tried Graham's. It tasted like a bunch of fruit put together to make a slushy. Then, we had my dad's. It tasted like a sour raspberry. Finally, we tried mine. It was all caramel, so creamy and smooth my mom went psycho for it. I asked her why she did not buy her own. She said she thought that it would be too much ice cream. She then told me that my ice cream was leaking, which I think was a lie because she just wanted more. I started screaming at her because she wouldn't give me my ice cream back, so I only got a half. My mom was like a dog with a bone. I feared for my life.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Just Like Me
Before we arrived in Buenos Aires I had some preconceived notions about Argentine women. You know, the typical "they all look like tango dancers" stereotype: long-legged, short-skirted, smooth dark hair pulled into a neat tight bun, heels, manicured, pedicured, neat, cool, a pampered package. In other words, my complete and total opposite. During my period of pre-travel psycho-ness, I would lie in bed (heart beating a little too fast) and think about the hair washings, massages, and pedicures that I would be forced to endure just to fit in. I couldn't wait.
Well, we arrive in BA, and much to my surprise, the women don't look anything like I imagined. In fact, I fit right in, frizzy hair and all. Maybe it's our neighborhood—we're in Recoleta—but I haven't seen a single woman who resembles my mind's stereotype. I'm a little disappointed because now I can just continue as I am, no pressure to smooth the frizz and buff the nails.
Ha.
Well, we arrive in BA, and much to my surprise, the women don't look anything like I imagined. In fact, I fit right in, frizzy hair and all. Maybe it's our neighborhood—we're in Recoleta—but I haven't seen a single woman who resembles my mind's stereotype. I'm a little disappointed because now I can just continue as I am, no pressure to smooth the frizz and buff the nails.
Ha.
One Small Foot for a Girl...
by Katharine
Today was my first pedicure. We walked around the whole of French Street. But all of the shops were closed except one. When we walked in we knew something was wrong. First she took us downstairs (upstairs was much nicer). Then she took us into a little box where we ended up being squashed. We both went through a horror of pain. She took a very sharp pointy thing and stabbed our toes. When can we go, I thought. She asked my mom what color she wanted. My mom said "red." Then she asked me. I wanted black and green but she did not want me to get dark colors. She said, "pinkish white." When my mom's feet were done they looked like she cut her toes with a machete. The woman had splattered the polish all over her toes but she did not care. When we went to pay she told us how much it was. It was 50 pesos! We paid and tried to walk out but it was too late, the woman started kissing us—ewww! We quickly ran out. We saw dad and told him the news.
Today was my first pedicure. We walked around the whole of French Street. But all of the shops were closed except one. When we walked in we knew something was wrong. First she took us downstairs (upstairs was much nicer). Then she took us into a little box where we ended up being squashed. We both went through a horror of pain. She took a very sharp pointy thing and stabbed our toes. When can we go, I thought. She asked my mom what color she wanted. My mom said "red." Then she asked me. I wanted black and green but she did not want me to get dark colors. She said, "pinkish white." When my mom's feet were done they looked like she cut her toes with a machete. The woman had splattered the polish all over her toes but she did not care. When we went to pay she told us how much it was. It was 50 pesos! We paid and tried to walk out but it was too late, the woman started kissing us—ewww! We quickly ran out. We saw dad and told him the news.
Perros, Perros, Perros
By Katharine
There are many dogs here. On every block there is a dog. There are yellow dogs, brown dogs, tan dogs, spotty dogs, big dogs, and little dogs. Sometimes when we go to the park we see them running and playing. We usually see them in packs. All the dog walkers have about 10 or 20 dogs. But there is one bad thing, poop. Everywhere you step is poop. My mom, Graham, and I miss the poop but our dad steps in all of it. So we always have to say dad, you stepped in poop! But I like it here.
There are many dogs here. On every block there is a dog. There are yellow dogs, brown dogs, tan dogs, spotty dogs, big dogs, and little dogs. Sometimes when we go to the park we see them running and playing. We usually see them in packs. All the dog walkers have about 10 or 20 dogs. But there is one bad thing, poop. Everywhere you step is poop. My mom, Graham, and I miss the poop but our dad steps in all of it. So we always have to say dad, you stepped in poop! But I like it here.
San Telmo Sunday Market; Photos
by Louise
"There's an antique market in San Telmo on Sunday, you want to go?" (Insert sound of groaning children.) "Can we buy toys there?" (Insert sound of groaning parents.)
We set off for the market not really knowing what to expect. Would it be a bunch of tables set up in full sun in the middle of the neighborhood square? Hawkers selling junk? Would our kids be whining and dragging their feet forcing us into a little cafe for a mid-morning cerveza o dos?
After walking in the wrong direction three times and the right direction (but thinking it was the wrong direction) twice, we finally made it to the market. What a madhouse. It carried on for block after brick-lined block. The Spanish colonial homes created a perfect frame for the sellers, singers, tango dancers, and costumed people. Was it like this always? Quizás, we were told, this was just another Sunday in San Telmo. So, like the woman in the ducha libre, we went with the flow.
Graham is developing an interest in knives. We're not sure if we should be concerned about this or not. There certainly were plenty to look at, touch, and wave around in his sister's face.
Katharine spent a really, really long time looking at jewelery. The booth owners often tried to change her focus to "kid" stuff but she would have none of it. She never did find what she was looking for. We're not even sure what she was looking for. She's still looking.
There was a lot of very cool horse stuff. Almost made me wish I could ride. Almost.
Family portrait. You can see that at least I'm still smiling.
"There's an antique market in San Telmo on Sunday, you want to go?" (Insert sound of groaning children.
We set off for the market not really knowing what to expect. Would it be a bunch of tables set up in full sun in the middle of the neighborhood square? Hawkers selling junk? Would our kids be whining and dragging their feet forcing us into a little cafe for a mid-morning cerveza o dos?
After walking in the wrong direction three times and the right direction (but thinking it was the wrong direction) twice, we finally made it to the market. What a madhouse. It carried on for block after brick-lined block. The Spanish colonial homes created a perfect frame for the sellers, singers, tango dancers, and costumed people. Was it like this always? Quizás, we were told, this was just another Sunday in San Telmo. So, like the woman in the ducha libre, we went with the flow.
Graham is developing an interest in knives. We're not sure if we should be concerned about this or not. There certainly were plenty to look at, touch, and wave around in his sister's face.
Katharine spent a really, really long time looking at jewelery. The booth owners often tried to change her focus to "kid" stuff but she would have none of it. She never did find what she was looking for. We're not even sure what she was looking for. She's still looking.
There was a lot of very cool horse stuff. Almost made me wish I could ride. Almost.
Family portrait. You can see that at least I'm still smiling.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
First Lessons in Urban Life
by Andrew
A week ago, as we wandered down Collins Avenue in South Beach, we passed a slew of young men whose sex was not a slam dunk, at least for a seven-year-old. Some wore dresses, some wore make-up, some wore almost nothing at all. All would have won the Miss Exmore competition without a single pirouette. As each one passed, Katharine turned to Louise and whispered: "Was that a man or a woman?"
And so we had the urban equivalent of the birds-and-the-bees conversation, otherwise known as the drones-and-drakes dialogue. Oh, it may be old hat to you folks who live in New York or San Francisco, but for a child whose closest encounter with homosexuality was a Pekin duck and his Appalachian son, this was big stuff. I must announce that Katharine no longer sees the world as Sarah Palin does.
On our first evening in Buenos Aires, Katharine appraised her surroundings with the cool eyes of someone who's been there and done that. No longer a country rube, she knows how to recognize the tell-tale signs of homosexuality: handsome men, show tunes, and escalating real-estate prices.
As we sat at dinner, a group of men congregated on the sidewalk in front of us. They were obviously a soccer team, gathering for a beer at the cafe. In greeting, the men hugged and kissed each other on the cheek. Our little veteran from South Beach didn't miss a thing. Eyes aglitter, she leaned in to the table and whispered urgently: "Are there a lot of G-A-Ys here?"
A week ago, as we wandered down Collins Avenue in South Beach, we passed a slew of young men whose sex was not a slam dunk, at least for a seven-year-old. Some wore dresses, some wore make-up, some wore almost nothing at all. All would have won the Miss Exmore competition without a single pirouette. As each one passed, Katharine turned to Louise and whispered: "Was that a man or a woman?"
And so we had the urban equivalent of the birds-and-the-bees conversation, otherwise known as the drones-and-drakes dialogue. Oh, it may be old hat to you folks who live in New York or San Francisco, but for a child whose closest encounter with homosexuality was a Pekin duck and his Appalachian son, this was big stuff. I must announce that Katharine no longer sees the world as Sarah Palin does.
On our first evening in Buenos Aires, Katharine appraised her surroundings with the cool eyes of someone who's been there and done that. No longer a country rube, she knows how to recognize the tell-tale signs of homosexuality: handsome men, show tunes, and escalating real-estate prices.
As we sat at dinner, a group of men congregated on the sidewalk in front of us. They were obviously a soccer team, gathering for a beer at the cafe. In greeting, the men hugged and kissed each other on the cheek. Our little veteran from South Beach didn't miss a thing. Eyes aglitter, she leaned in to the table and whispered urgently: "Are there a lot of G-A-Ys here?"
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