Porteño Living

Living with my host mother, Carolina, was one of my fondest memories of studying Spanish for a month in the glamorous city of Buenos Aires. This city oozes style, boasting a passionate and learned civil society comparable to the French, the melodic accent, warmth, and hearty cuisine of the Italians, the bustling pace of Manhattan, the ornate architecture of Paris (as it was designed by the same French architects), and finally an affordability that knocks any European city out of the water. Welcome to the Paris of South America.

Parisian Apartments on Junin

For those who have not yet experienced this fabulous ciudad, it may come as a surprise that Buenos Aires really does showcase the best of all worlds. It is modern, literate, historic, traditional (tango anyone?), and more than anything, welcomes a myriad of ethnicities, mainly mixing Spanish, Italian, and German ancestors into the contemporary porteños walking the streets in stylish leather coats and knee-high riding boots, flashing class and sophistication from head to toe.

Tango Feet

Recoleta

Calle Florida

Now it would be a lie to neglect the fact that Eva Perón (Evita), my longtime idol, had no influence on my decision to explore Buenos Aires. I had recently finished an in depth report on the country's democratic consolidation (thank you Dr. Williams), and had voraciously torn through a biography of the controversial Evita just months before, so naturally this visit stirred a sort of wonder and excitement from within. Maybe this is what provided for an extra pop in my step as I roamed the calles laden with 'caca de perro' every day.

Eva Duarte and Juan Perón

A Typical Dog Walker in BsAs

In any case, my host mother, Carolina, was a sweet lady, surprisingly preoccupied with her appearance for a widow in her early 70s, but endearing nonetheless. She spoke broken English, ate take out pasta from the amazing Italian deli on Calle Aguero every night, walked around talking to herself (as could be heard by the many "esta biens" echoing from all corners of the apartment), and loved the street mutt she found wandering into her art gallery 3 years ago, 'Chiquitita', more than life itself. Carolina seemed lonely from losing her husband to a terminal illness just a year prior, and had a swanky 3-bedroom flat in the heart of Recoleta to fill with students flocking to this city to learn about its culture and language. Within the first few days of our arrival, we would come home from Spanish class and crash from having to wake up so early, pounding 4 hours of intensive Spanish instruction into our little heads every day. Carolina didn't seem to be a fan of this, because she now had an American host daughter she wanted to paint the town red with. And so began my unique tour of Buenos Aires through the eyes of Carolina, on that 2nd day of our stay.

I was quickly swept up into the pasta shop next door to our apartment building, being introduced to the married couple who owned this scrumptious deli that fed Carolina (and shortly after, me) every night. Onwards to the next block to drop off our laundry (yes, most people in Buenos Aires drop their laundry off to be done by a specialist), as I shyly greeted the owners in Spanish behind a proud Carolina. No time for chit chat, onto the Avenida Santa Fe to find a throw rug for my mother's bedroom. After entering about eight different stores and meeting over 15 of Carolina's local shopkeeper friends, it was time to start heading back home with no rug in hand (there seemed to be something 'off' with all of them, according to my seasoned shopping accomplice.)

We had to cross the wide, busy street to get back to our neighborhood, and true to form, I never wait for the pedestrian signal to cross, regardless of the country I'm in. Carolina, trusting that I was watching, started walking across Santa Fe as she was talking to me, her back turned toward the oncoming traffic. In all fairness, I assumed we had plenty of time to cross because the cars were about 100 feet away. Somehow, I forgot that the cars in South America drive twice as fast and twice as close to objects (ie pedestrians and other cars) as in America. As we made it halfway across the five-lane street, I found it imperative to cut Carolina's sentence off and point at the traffic surging toward us as I began breaking into a sprint, leather boots and all. Carolina, already rather fidgety when calm, turned her head to the traffic and almost jumped out of her skin, releasing a raspy yelp and contorting her fingers into helpless claw-like positions as she grasped at the air to keep up with me. Given that I find humor in just about everything, I couldn't help but throw my head back and begin cackling wildly as we reached the sidewalk, in a way thumbing my nose at the "I told you so's" who are against jaywalking (we made it, didn't we?) Carolina, on the other hand, didn't seem to share the amusement until a few minutes after her heart calmed down. From this point on, I was known as the 'loca' by Carolina, and we couldn't contain our laughter for the duration of the 20 minute walk home. Although she wouldn't admit it at the time, I know she enjoyed the adrenaline rush, and for the rest of my stay, Carolina would look at me with an endearing twinkle in her eye as 'the little American girl who almost caused her a premature heart attack.' The way I look at it, what a reminder that we're alive! Esta bien.

Carolina (left), Me, and Mama

Things That Go Bump In Under the Tuscan Moon

One fine evening, my family and I were sitting around the large dinner table in the villa we were renting in Gattaiola, Italy. We had just finished an exquisite entrée consisting of fresh caprese made with basil from our own front yard, and traditional gnocci. Given my aversion to food comas, I coaxed my father and friend who had been traveling with me for a month, Donna, into taking a stroll through the windy back country roads we had not yet explored.

Our Villa

Little did I know that Gattaiola, this seemingly peaceful little region located just a few miles outside the enchanting, safe walls of Lucca, houses several wild animals, including....wild boars. Malicious, rogue boars willing to charge a victim if provoked. This minor detail was discovered after our walk.....naturally.

Gattaiola

As we turned off our driveway, heading into the Gattaiolan frontier, I felt my breath being taken away by the spectacular scenery. The moon had risen across the jet black sky, unscathed by light pollution, casting rich luminous rays of white onto the countryside. The light humidity allowed for a cardigan over my sundress to suffice, and we gazed into the endless sky as we walked, listening to my father, the astrophysicist, explain constellations, black holes, and the universe. The narrow road continued winding around hills and through fields, dotted with clouds of lightening bugs to lead the way, and we soon found ourselves walking in silence around a bend between a forest, and a walled villa. Suddenly, we heard a throaty, rumbling growl come from the trees to our left. Given that one could have heard a pin drop it was so quiet, we all jumped a little, and began walking a little faster. Donna and I, being the "girls", were of course a lot more frightened than my adventure-seeking father, and began crafting an exit strategy off the path incase said angry animal were to jump out and attack. Again, the growl sounded closer this time, and we noticed a few branches shaking about 20 feet away. Picked up the pace. Thankfully, we made it through the narrowest part of the path and felt a lot more comfortable upon reaching open land on both sides again. We walked about 100 more feet, laughing nervously about how scary and serious it would have been had that animal jumped out....and we reached a dead end. So much for our plan of finding an alternate route home. Now normally, I live to scare myself, I like the adrenaline rush. This, however, became a bit too real for me when I saw my level-headed father leave the path to find a thick branch for protection. Well, he did find a long branch and broke it into two pieces, providing Donna and himself with one, and leaving me with little more than my bare hands and pitiful shrieks to protect myself. Thank you papa.

In any case, we began walking back and soon entered the narrow bend again, tip toeing as fast as we could in silence, and ready to start sprinting within a moments notice. The grumbling went off again, this time only about 10 feet away, and we saw more branches rustling. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a second, imagining my father being charged and taken down without a chance to defend himself, leaving Donna and I to try and save him from being mangled with no help around us for miles. I opened my eyes, feeling the most vulnerable I have felt in ages, and heard the animal sound like it was foaming at the mouth, as if we had disturbed it's sanctuary. My heart felt like a drum beating fast, pulsating through my whole body. I could feel my adrenaline levels spike, letting off the sensation of a thousand butterflies tickling my stomach. Thankfully, being the unarmed one, I was farthest from the wild beast, and we had finally made it around the bend without the brute eating us alive.

Upon reaching our villa, we later confirmed that wild boars ARE native to the Tuscan region, and pose a threat to the quieter populations. A little late on the research.