I'm running away and joining the Argentine circus.

Learning how to do "telas" with some acrobats in Bosque Palermo. They don't perform, just practice for fun.

You're not Argentine if you don't like futbol, don't play Truco and don't drink mate.

According to our Argentine literature teacher Liria, these three components define a true Argentinian. Everyone knows what futbol is (you’ve probably have heard it called soccer in the States) and Truco is a card game mentioned in Olivero Girondo’s poem “Croquis en la Arena” that seems similar to the game Bullshit. But what I really want to talk about is mate.

Mate has a similar taste to green tea, but the process of preparing it and serving it much more complex. It’s a ritual. The drink is served in a gourde that is carved into a cup. The herbs are placed inside the gourde and then hot water is poured on top. One person (the cebador) is in charge of preparing and serving the mate.

Trying mate is not like trying a sip of someone’s latte in the States. In order to avoid seeming rude, when you “try it” you must leave the metal straw (bombilla) where it is and consume the entire cup. Por ejemplo, you should not take a small sip make a grossed-out face, and hand it back (which I may or may have not done the first time I tried mate). Also, don’t say gracias until you’ve gotten your fill of mate. Saying thank you means you don’t want another cup.

According to ISA director Guille the way mate is served to you can tell a lot about your relationship with the server. If the mate is sweet, the server thinks fondly of you. If your mate is too hot, you may want to rethink the relationship.

As Argentina is the world’s biggest producer of yerba mate, it is not uncommon the see people walking around with their Mate supplies in hand: to dinner parties, park picnics even when watching the Argentina vs. Canada futbol game in Plaza de Mayo. The school I go to here doesn’t have a soda dispenser, but it does have a soda dispenser-sized hot water dispenser for making mate. For some people the drink is too bitter and grass-like, but give it a taste and mate might just be your cup of tea.

El Bicentenario

Plaza 9 de Julio for the Argentina's Bicentenario

On May 25th, 2010 Argentina turned 200 years old. Tuesday’s celebration was initiated by a week long pandomonium of cultural fesivals, parades and art exhibitions. But after a five day long weekend (classes were canceled throughout Argentina in honor of the bicentenario) and constant warning that we would be mugged, trampled or attacked if we ventured outside for the Bicentenario, I found myself in the cafeteria of la Residencia working on a project of Beatriz Sarlo’s “Modernidad Perifcérico.”

Wanting a break from our studies, a few of the girls and I walked to a local restaurant where I sampled my first Parilla (see “Comida Tipica” coming soon). The restarurant had a flat screen mounted on the wall and was tuned in to live coverage of the Bicentenario celebration: Fireworks, parades, concerts, President Crisitina Kirchner dancing in the street (face looking impeccably wrinkle-free as always)*. At that moment, we decided we couldn't be in Argentina and not be part of the country's 200th anniversary. We asked for la cuenta and headed back to the Res. After recruiting a few friends, we called a cab and headed to Plaza 9 de Julio. When we arrived the scene was chaotic. Think Time Square’s New Year’s Eve celebration on steroids. The show featured fireworks, various folkloric performers and pop stars performing in what appeared to be giant plastic snow globes.

It was not too dangerous as long as we remained on the opposite side of the concerts and at a safe distance. But we still had our guards up. Individuals would approach us asking where we bought our snacks, where was this restaurant or that street was; a common ploy of pick-pocketers.

It was reported that nearly 2 million people attended Bicentenario celebration. When we left the plaza Fito Paez had just taken the stage. Despite the chaos and congestion the Porteños still managed to carry backpacks stocked with thermos and cup for enjoying their traditional refreshment: mate.

*Argentina, as well as other South American countries is known for its lower-than-North American priced plastic surgery. President Kirchner has been nicknamed "The queen of Botox." Argentina has highest ratio of plastic surgery operations to population in the world.

Color Local

Liria, our Argentine literature teacher twirled the sideburn like strands of her pixie hair cut between her fingers as she recounted important happenings in Argentine history. This subconscious mannerism was reminiscent of Confucius twirling his beard as he spouted words of wisdom.


Michelle y yo queremos enseñar la clase

Y es la verdad que all of our teachers here are extremely intelligent and eager to cultivate us into cultured world travelers. With the Italian influence apparent in both her dialect and extravagant yet endearing hand motions, Liria painted an image of the development of modern Agrentina as if she had been there herself. We focused mainly on el barbarismo versus la civilación and the importance of los gauchos in Argentine history.

Subscribing to the Socratic method of teaching, Liria asked us many questions. We told her what we thought of the city and the people so far. When we remarked on the thinness of most Argentinian girls, Liria told us something that I was not aware before: Argentina has one of the highest incidences of anorexia and bulimia in the world. With the perpetual scent of fresh carne circulating through the city, I can´t imagine how anyone could starve themselves.

Liria is a Porteña but she lacks one defining trait of local women. Since she has a short hair style, it’s obvious she’s had a hair cut at least once in her life. When going out in Buenos Aires one would think that all the Porteñas are saving up for a mass donation to locks of love.

A common characteristic of both Argentina and the United States is their infamy as cultural "melting pots." What’s separates the two countries is that as Liria taught us, in Argentina, the hyphen doesn't exist. In the U.S., I consider myself Cuban-American. But here it doesn’t matter if your mother is Korean and your father is German, you are Argentinian. Solamente. I’ve already met people from Bolivia, Boston, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Ecuador, Peru, and Mexico and and I’ve only been here for 6 days.

The cultural diversity of Argentina was exemplified by our visit to a high brow club called Asia de Cuba. After snacking on jamón flavored Lays potato chips (yes, even their chips are meat flavored) we grabbed Radio Taxis and headed to Puerto Madero. How ironic that Argentine clubs have coat check when it’s 60 degrees outside, but in Gainesville coat check doesn’t exist even when it’s below freezing. Everything in the club was of modern Asian decor and especially sleek and shiny was the dance floor. Two of the girls discovered this as they skipped to the bathroom and wound up like baseball players sliding into home plate. The best part: obviously, the dance floor was empty at this point because it was sooo early...2 a.m.



Despite the ritziness of Asia de Cuba, one still needs to beware of wandering eyes. Because as Guille warned us, eye contact between strangers of the opposite sex can be interpreted as “Yes, I will marry you!” in Buenos Aires...


Puerto Madero: Afuera de Asia de Cuba

No soy turista, soy viajera

San Telmo



With the cardinal Porteño rules of 1. Do not speak loudly in English 2. Do not carry more pesos than necessary and 3. Do not expect a Porteño boy to leave you alone just because you say you have a boyfriend at home (no le importa) we embarked on our four hour bus tour of Buneos Aires.

Despite a unanimous feeling of jet lag upon arrival, we had decided to start the trip off right by going out to a nearby boliche the night before. The club was called Tazz. Here Yaki became someone’s “novia americanaaaaa,” Casas made friends with a bar tender named Iziquiel (more commonly known as “Easy Kill”) and I made it utterly apparent that I was a foreigner by shaking a guy’s hand instead of dos besos on the cheek... Dios mio. But I was not alone in my easily identifiable extranjera traits. When we went to leave the club around 3 a.m. everyone we passed on the way out asked why we were leaving so early. In Buenos Aires a typical night of partying can last until 9 a.m. No wonder they eat dinner at 10 p.m.

Back to the bus tour... That Sunday started off with an International Study Abroad orientation presentation given by Guillermo, the ISA director, in ENGLISH. Guille is fluent in both English and Spanish, but as most of our Spanish is spoken a bit more slowly than our English, so is Guille’s English. This lethargic yet smoothly spoken English combined with the constant zhh sound of the Argentinian accent made for a lovely lullaby leaving some of us (mainly me) struggling to stay alert and anxious to get out and actually see the city.

Thus, when we were on the bus and Guille asked for a show of hands for who preferred our tour to be given in English, my roommate Flor and I turned around and glared, daring one of the Texas Christian University students to raise a hand.
Once Spanish was settled upon as our language of choice, we set off to devour Buenos Aires most renowned land marks. From el Cementario de la Recoleta to Puerto Madero we absorbed the sights, sounds and tastes of the Paris of the South. All together we made five stops: El Cementario de la Recoleta, Plaza de Mayo, Palermo SOHO, La Boca and Puerto Madero. This blog could go on and on about all the things I have seen and done in the few days I’ve been in Buenos Aires but apparently I already have a mountain of reading to do. I’m crossing my fingers for lots of field trips!

Kelsey Diaz and the semester abroad...

LAN flight 4541 to Buenos Aires, Argentina took off the ground at 8:54 p.m. on Friday, May 14th, although I felt like I had been in Latin America from the moment I stepped foot inside MIA. Everyone in the baggage check line was speaking Spanish or Portuguese and when I finally reached the counter the combination of my first and last name seemed to confuse the attendee. Why my parents decided to give me a name that is virtually unpronounceable to Spanish speakers is beyond me. My dad, who is a less than stereotypical Cuban says he had no say when my mom chose Kelsey, an Irish first name. When I say less than stereotypical I’m referring to the fact that my dad doesn’t Salsa dance, doesn’t smoke cigars and despite my childhood fantasies, he is not Ricky Ricardo. “An Irish first name and a Cuban last name,” he says, “you’re Cubish.” Gotta love dad humor. Guess I’m going to have to settle with being called Kale-say for the next six weeks. I think I’ll survive...