Robbie Levin • Argentina
Imagine walking into a Dr. Seuss book.
All around you there is an explosion of colors. The ceiling and the floor are covered with bright green, yellow and red. The walls, flushed with writing and stencils, would make a graffiti artist blush.
The incredible palate extends beyond the walls, though. The people themselves are as diverse as the building that surrounds them. They may not be Ham-ikka-Schnim-ikka-Schnam-ikka-Schnopp or Bartholomew Cubbins, but these individuals truly add to the character of this effervescent edifice.
After the initial color shock, you’ll notice the building reeks of cigarette smoke. All around you people are lighting up, transforming the floor into a makeshift ash tray.
Completing this sense shock is the ever-present hum of chatter floating through the hallways. No matter if you are here at 10 AM or 10 PM, the hallways are permanently abuzz with a chorus of castellano.
This is where I go to school. Or rather, went to school.
The University of Buenos Aires (in short, la UBA), is practically an Argentine landmark. Nearly 200 years old, UBA claims more than a dozen former presidents of Argentina as alumni. More than 300,000 students are currently enrolled in one or more of the University’s 14 schools.
This fall was a historic semester for UBA, as two of its schools took part in a month-long strike. The students were calling for—among other things—better conditions and upgraded facilities. My natural reaction was to question the strike, but it doesn’t take a Buenos Aires native to realize these aren’t unfounded requests. If you’re interested in reading more about the strike, check here and here. The students settled after the administration agreed to pay 20 million pesos (about 5 million dollars) towards the construction of a new building.
The students enrolled in UBA will be finishing up classes in late December, but that’s several weeks after our program is scheduled to end. With this in mind, my program offered us the option of dropping our UBA classes and instead getting credits through a directed research paper or seminars offered through our program. As the strike wore on, our program strongly cautioned against continuing at UBA, saying it wasn’t sure when the semester would end and thus couldn’t guarantee credit.
Last week I finally un-enrolled at UBA and started two investigative research projects. I still have the option of going to my UBA classes to sit in as an advisor of sorts, but with all the work and research I’ve got now I haven’t found the time.
It’s no one’s fault, really, just a confluence of unfortunate events that led me to where I am. Still, it’s strange to think my bizarre trajectory of UBA classes has come to a screeching halt, and it’s weirder to think that I actually miss going to class. Yeah, that’s right. I don’t miss the work or the boring lectures, but as my time in Buenos Aires winds down, I’ve come to realize there was more to class than learning. It was an opportunity to practice my Spanish, to learn from Buenos Aires natives and to get a feel for the life of a 20-year-old student in the city.
For some weird reason, I always get the school blues at the end of the year. I start thinking about how much I learned and how much fun I had. As spring turns into summer here in Buenos Aires, the end of the semester has a decidedly different feeling. There are no parties celebrating the end of the year. No senior ditch days or Proms to get excited about. No sappy goodbyes. My chick-flick ending was cut short, and I was left standing on the doorstep with flowers in my hands.
Well, I guess this is adios.
For me, foreign languages are like codes. New words, new grammar, new rules. Accordingly, I’ve always thought of Spanish as a different way of speaking. But as I discovered in a fascinating New York Times article, foreign languages can also represent a new way of thinking.
In the piece, Deustcher explains that your native language may have unbeknownst affects on your mentality concerning certain objects. For example, if you grew up speaking a language with grammatical genders (French, Spanish, German), you are more likely to associate certain words with certain genders. Because el libro is masculine, Spanish speakers may view books as having more masculine qualities than, say, la mano. To demonstrate how this plays out, Deustcher uses the example of a cartoon character in his article, saying that Spanish children may feel more comfortable with a cartoon book having a man’s voice and a cartoon hand portrayed as a woman. This is a fascinating theory of which, as an English speaker, I was completely unaware.
Deustcher’s article got me thinking about the other nuances that separate certain languages. For example, in English one would say, “you are tall and you are sick.” In Spanish, “tu eres alto y tu estás enfermo.” Spanish, or castellano as it is called in Argentina, has two different verbs to describe characteristics. The verb ser describes permanent, physical characteristics—height, color, etc. The verb estar characterizes changing properties—feelings, location, etc. I had never considered the different connotations of the verb “to be,” but now that I think about it, it makes complete sense to divide the verb into permanent and temporary usages.
To the chagrin of every high school Spanish student in the country, español also utilizes verb tenses that don’t exist in English. The subjunctive tense in Spanish, used to portray doubt, concern, denial among other things. So if you think you are going to the grocery store, you would use a different conjugation of the verb “to go” than if you don’t think you are going to the grocery story.
Hope you’re still with me after that impromptu language lesson. If nothing else, now you’ll know why the talking tree in the Spanish cartoon you’re watching has a male voice, while the cloud has a feminine one.
*All of these things are actually feminine (from left to right, sandalias, mochila, almohada)
This SlideShowPro photo gallery requires the Flash Player plugin and a web browser with JavaScript enabled.
As I’ve said before, the revolutionary spirit is alive and well in Buenos Aires. In my short time here I’ve seen the protest manifested in several different ways—from an afternoon rally to a month-long student strike.
And sometimes you come across a demonstration when you least expect it.
A couple weeks ago I stumbled upon this rally at the Ministerio de Trabajo (Ministry of Labor), where workers from different unions were protesting their miniscule wages. As rallies go, it was pretty run-of-the-mill. Still, I wanted to take some pictures to give those in the United States a taste of Argentina’s appetite for objection.
UBA Rally from Robert Levin on Vimeo.
El facultad ha sido tomado.
“The building has been taken over.” Emblazoned on a gargantuan sheet of construction paper, those words greeted all visitors to the University of Buenos Aires (UBA) campus on Ramos Mejia street. Words you would expect to see in a war zone, not at a university.
Inside, students locked all the classrooms and pushed the chairs into the hallways. Professors unwilling to cede their precious class time led impromptu discussions amidst a scene of mild chaos. Students and revolutionaries alike roamed the hallways, handing out pamphlets explaining the takeover. A local radio station started broadcasting from a table near the front entrance. Bewildered foreigners stood in shock, trying to take in all the commotion.
As any porteno (a Buenos Aires native) will tell you, the revolutionary spirit is alive and well in Argentina’s capital. Protests and demonstrations are as much a part of the city as delicious food and mate. Plus, in general college students are in their “protest prime”—the period of one’s life in which they are most likely to fight back.
In high school my United States history teacher, Mr. Hicks, once made this offer: an automatic A for anyone who could organize a walkout. “The food in the cafeteria is bad, but not that bad,” I remember thinking. Really, we didn’t have much to complain about. We went to a clean, well-funded, safe school. I feel the same way about Northwestern and every other university I’ve visited. Yeah, some schools get more funding. And yes, some have better facilities. But at the end of the day, I’ve been lucky enough to attend some of our country’s premier institutions.
Anyone who’s strolled through an UBA building knows that the facilities are nowhere near equivalent to the university’s reputation as one of the best on the continent. To make matters worse, students and administrators have been on different wavelengths (to put it nicely) for some time, making for a palpable tension. So when two glass structures collapsed at a nearby UBA building, injuring a bystander, a group of students took the initiative and took over the school. A walkout by lockout.
This is far from the first time something like this has happened—students took over the building as recently as 2008—so it wasn’t as fascinating for everyone as it was for me. I discussed the issue over coffee with a group of Argentines from my class. For the most part they were nonchalant, not really concerned with the “what” or “why.”
Some students, however, were more passionate about the situation. I filmed the accompanying video at a rally later that night, in which several hundred students came to listen to speeches from classmates and teachers. The energy was electric. Several particularly rousing orators evoked huge waves of applause, and after every speaker the crowd broke out in chants and songs.
(Believe it or not, this was the first time I have ever filmed a rally in a foreign country while standing on a chair in the middle of a large crowd. Please excuse the shaky camera.)
I can’t say I agree with everything these students were doing, or why they were doing it. But watching students fight tooth-and-nail for services that I had always taken for granted is something I’ll remember for a while.
Mr. Hicks would be proud.
Every country has its drink. England has tea. Brazil has coffee. Argentina? Here they’ve got mate.
What’s mate (pronounced MAH-tay)? In a word, tea. In a sentence, it’s a jumble of hot water and the dried leaves of the yerba mate plant. Mate is everywhere in Buenos Aires: vendors sell it on the streets, picknickers sip it in the park, and as I recently discovered, students drink it in class.
Before I divulge the story of how I took my first taste, let me explain the culture behind classroom consumption. Several minutes after a professor begins their lecture, a student in the class will invariably unveil a large thermos full of boiling water, a bag of dried leaves and a small, round mate cup (straw, or bombilla, included). The student will fill the cup with leaves and hot water, thus beginning the “Mate Marathon.” When the student finishes the first cup, he/she will pour in more water and pass it along to the person sitting nearest them. After that person guzzles the second cup, they pass it back to the initial student, who refills it and doles it out to another neighbor. And so on and so forth. What I find fascinating is that unlike Kindergarten snack day or Friday afternoons in your best friend’s basement, there is no pre-determined mate schedule. Whoever feels inclined will bring the necessary accoutrements, and sipping will commence.
This mate merry-go-round works best when everyone is seated in a circle, as we were today in my Latin American Politics class. The groups were discussing a piece we read about the development of post-World War II economic structures. An article about a subject I don’t understand in a foreign language? A good opportunity for me to hone my prism-drawing skills.
Nevertheless, my day took a turn for the best when one of my classmates whipped out a cup and started filling it with water and leaves. While my fellow group members opined about their economic models of choice, I was fixated on the spherical chalice as it made its way around the circle. When the round, wooden mug reached my desk, I gazed into it as if it were some Hogsmeade concoction that were about to come to life. Thankfully it didn’t. As I put my mouth to the bombilla, I remembered the words from the girl pouring the mate, “be careful, it’s hot.”
“I’ve had hot before,” I thought. “It can’t be that hot.”
It was that hot. The water immediately burned my tongue and lips, and the remnants of my first sip spilled onto my notebook. Luckily, no one noticed. I made sure my subsequent slurps were slower and more subdued. After a few minutes, the burning in my mouth diminished and I was able to put my taste buds to the test.
In my several prior encounters with tea, I made sure to add copious amounts of sugar. However the mate I had today wasn’t sweet. Rather it had a distinctly dry flavor (understandably so—it is literally nothing other than water and leaves). I’m no tea connoisseur, but I think I’ll need a couple more trials before I reach a verdict.
For now, I’m just glad to be able to check “drink mate” off my list of “Things to do in Buenos Aires.” Next up? Fútbol.
For someone who has never taken an architecture or engineering class, I’ve got plenty of building experience. That’s what a childhood of Sims series computer games will do to you (yes, that includes SimCity and The Sims: Livin’ Large). Really these games aren’t as much building as they are creating, but you get the point. Regrettably I never found SimCountry. Although if that game had existed, my country would be eerily similar to Argentina.
The first quality for my ideal country? Warm weather. Yes, I have spent the majority of my life in a city that averages more than three feet of snow. But I’m a warm-weather guy at heart, and while it’s been pretty cold here so far (read: really cold), it could be worse. Plus spring is just around the corner, and I’m really looking forward to balmy November and December.
In a close second is la comida. The food here has been fantastic, and as I write this I’m recovering from one of the best meals I’ve had in my two decades on earth. Last Sunday some friends and I indulged in a 63 peso (16 dollar), all-you-can-eat smorgasbord. But this was much more than your average Old Country Buffet. This place had chefs at each stand whipping up everything from pizza to empanadas to ravioli to sushi. You name it, they had it. And don’t get me started on the desserts.
I’d also argue that Buenos Aires has the best café scene this side of Paris, but that’s another post for another time.
My third quality for the ultimate country isn’t as tangible as the first two. Rather it has to do with time. To put it simply—everything here starts later. If a class is supposed to begin at 9, the teacher will stroll in at 9:15. If you’re meeting someone for lunch at 1, you get to the restaurant at 1:15. For someone like me, who doesn’t classify “punctuality” as one of their strong suits, Buenos Aires is a dream come true. Plus, because everything starts and ends later, it’s not unusual to go to bed at 3 or 4 AM (actually, that’s a little early).
Finally, the sports scene here is, well, enormous. Everybody from my doorman to the president has an opinion, and I love it. In some cases, the success of politicians is directly tied to the success of soccer teams. Good thing that’s not the case in the United States, otherwise Chicago politicians would be in trouble.
Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you it takes me a while to do things most people consider second nature. I got my driver’s license a year after most of my friends. I still make bunny ears when I tie my shoes. You get the idea.
The day after my arrival my host mom handed me two keys – one for the door to our apartment complex and one for the door to our apartment. I didn’t think much of it, I figured opening the doors would be the least of my problems. How wrong I was.
The first time I tried to enter the building alone I couldn’t open the door. Luckily, there’s a security guard here at all times, and he helped me inside. As it turns out, my host mom had given me a broken key. So I wasn’t surprised the next day when I couldn’t open the door to our apartment – I figured the second key was broken as well. But this time, the security guard opened the door with ease. Apparently this was the right key.
Still, I couldn’t unlock the door. No matter how many different directions I turned the key, or how hard I pushed the door, it wouldn’t open. I became so frustrated that I entertained the idea of sleeping in the hallway on two separate occasions. Fortunately Tango, our boisterous and bombastic dog, came to the rescue. Upon hearing me clumsily try to open the door, Tango barked his heart out, likely awakening the entire complex, if not the entire city. Both nights my host mom had to let me in.
Thursday I finally asked our maid, Valoria, to help me figure out the lock. 30 minutes and one severely sore thumb later I had figured it out. Mas fuerte, Valoria told me.
All I had to do was a push a little harder to the left.
I’m used to doing things at my own pace. But what I’ve learned here is that’s not always possible. As I continue to get accustomed to the city, things will take longer than they normally do. I’ve got to allow extra time to get from place to place, and I’ve got to start planning ahead.
I thought the biggest adjustments would be the language, the food and the lifestyle in general. Not to say those aren’t important, but what I’ve learned in my time here is that sometimes it’s not the forest – the culture, the language, etc. It’s the trees. Or in my case, the keys.
I’ve always thought of my life as a book. It’s a quirk of mine I’m still trying to understand. Maybe it’s because I read too many biographies as a kid. Maybe it’s because I’ve always loved writing. Maybe it’s because my initials, R.S.L, almost match up with those of one of my favorite authors, R.L. Stine. Beats me.
But looking back on it, dividing my 20 years into neatly defined chapters would be a pain. I’ve gone to seven schools in three cities, most recently in Evanston, but also in Glenview, Illinois, (my home town) and Burlingame, California. In that time I’ve dabbled in everything from ice skating to improv. I’m a sports-crazed fan who doesn’t have a favorite team, and a journalism major thinking about law school. How’s that for a plot twist?
Now, at the halfway point of my college career, I’m putting Northwestern on hold in order to fulfill a life dream. I’m not sure when the last chapter ended, but I get the feeling a new one’s about to start.
