Last Post from Argentina

Am working on preparing myself for the Great Adventure home.  Remember all those old dog movies about the animals wandering all across the country trying to get back to their owners?

I make that look like a walk in the park.

Fortunately, however, I am not yet to the part where I am actually required to have any interactions with others.

Currently, I am in the Music Preparation Stage.  This is quite a process, and means a lot of iTunes research.  (It also can be very embarrassing, as when deciding whether or not a song is decent, one must first play it…  People are always inevitably present when the worst song possible begins to play.)

Leaving a country is always incredibly awkward.  Tend to do it all wrong, anyway.  For instance, said goodbye to my host brother today.  In my towel.  Mind was so filled with the fact that I WAS WEARING A TOWEL that I couldn’t come up with any good Spanish goodbye phrases, so I came off looking out like a major jerk.

People tend to spend their last day wandering around the city, taking pictures, and crying.

I’ve spent it… Not quite like that.

This afternoon has been filled with How I Met Your Mother.  (Which was super exciting, as it turns out, because Argentina is featured in the beginning of season three!  And it has Enrique Iglesias. Kind of blew my mind.)

At any rate, it will be strange to be gone.  No longer will I be able to blame my social awkwardness on a language barrier.  Gone are the days of being whistled at by strange men while going for my walk (if you’re picturing Cute Workout Barbie, try to picture more Elderly Woman in Atrocious Sweatpants).

I was recently reminded that I began my entire experience here with a That’s What She Said joke.  I know when I get back into town, everyone will ask me if I’ve changed.

But of course, I’ll say.  It was great – just wish it had lasted longer!

That’s what she said. 

In Which I am Nearly Deported.

Suspect self to not be a particularly talented traveler.

Went to Uruguay yesterday, and this supposedly simple trip was greatly complicated by my travel savvy deficiency.

The difficulty began the night before, when nearly froze to death when slumbering.  Yet instead of simply awakening and gathering warming materials like a sane person, I evidently opted to attempt to curl myself into some sort of warmth seeking lump of miserable.  Awoke to find entire self folded neatly (along with my blankie, of course) on my pillow.

I do not have a very large pillow.

This bit of nighttime aerobics gave me a limp all day, remarkably reminiscent of a ninety-year-old woman.  Or a one-and-a-half legged pirate.

At least no dignity was lost.

Despite this minor setback and a subway failure (after which I became solely responsible for the vertical maintenance of a sleeping woman), we arrived to the boat on schedule.

At which point tragedy struck.

Due to my new passport in which I bear startling resemblance to a member of the Elfin Nation, I had a myriad of Fairly Important Papers.

Presented them all to the scary looking man with my best and most hopeful smile.  He snatched them from my friendly grip with a grunt and began rifling sacrilegiously through them.  Keeping my hopeful-slowly-turning-concerned smile plastered on my face, I watched as he picked up my passport and walked away.

This was rather unexpected.

Abandoned, I remained at my post in front of the window.

Waited.

Preformed a foot shuffle.

Face began to twitch from the unexpected burden of maintaining my Most Presentable Face for so long.

It was at some point after I had begun to hum along to the soothing elevator music drifting softly throughout the building that he returned to twitching, shuffling, ever-smiling me.

Not bothering to restation himself in his proper place, he marched directly up to me (this would have been far more frightening had he been taller than four foot seven).

“Why are you here?” he asked brusquely.

Delighted to know the answer, I joyously announced, “Studying!”

This is where things got a bit strange.

“ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT!” he shouted at me.

“Ahhh…  Pardon?” I responded wittily.

“Illegal immigrant!!” he spat.  “You can’t just come here.  You need a visa.  A VISA!”

And with a snarl he stalked off.

Hmm.  Now, I may not be the most experienced traveler, but at this point, I deducted that this was not typical.

He returned with another growl, just for me, and an unfathomably complicated piece of paper.  He stamped by passport furiously, scrawled a note under the stamp, and threw my things back at me.

Relieved and rejoicing, I collected my items and scampered onto the vessel to commence the voyage.

The shock came when I opened my passport.  Under the exit stamp from Argentina was a message: until July 7^th.

I would be unable to re-enter Argentina.

I had been… deported?!?

This was fairly disheartening.

Frantic, I flipped to my new Fairly Important Paper and scanned it desperately for clues.

This paper was not in Spanish.

Well, it was. 

But the only words I recognized were “Virginia”, “judicial”, and “July.”

These were not soothing words.

Fortunately, I did not seem to possess enough sanity to stay panicked for long, so I fell asleep.

Upon arrival to Uruguay, I had the paper examined by a waitress.  (Officials scare me, especially after one had just ejected me from the country.)  She said lots of words to me that I did not understand, but from what I gathered I had not, in fact, been deported.

The people who allowed me back into Argentina seemed to agree with her, but they, too, said lots of words to me that I did not understand.

Then they asked if I understood, and I said yes.

This is a reflex, as to not appear stupid.  Instead, I will now walk around thrusting a random piece of paper at passerby to avoid deportation.

Good plan, Virginia.

Goodbye, Warm Weather.

My internet is refusing to allow me to be lazy.

I keep trying to access the magic website of Cuevana to watch 30 Rock, and it continually comes up with the error message BAD GATEWAY.

What??  What does this mean?!  Gateway?  What gateway?!?!!?

I am afraid of the telephone.

It isn’t as though the actual mechanism itself frightens me.  It is simply that the ringing is a sure sign of doom…  If I attempt to answer, chaos will ensue.  For on the other end awaits a Spanish Speaker.

This is more terrifying than I can possibly begin to describe.  For, due to some outrageous reason completely beyond me, Argentina has come to the conclusion that I can now speak Spanish.

This would be fine, except that I cannot.

Unfortunately, I have somehow managed to fool the entire country into thinking I’m practically native, so they ramble on to me with little regard for my comprehension.  Admittedly, I nearly always understand everything, but my Spanish vocabulary does not come complete with good Listening Words. 

I’ve gotten decent at making a good Listening Face, but sadly this does not translate well over a phone line. 

So I’ve developed a rather severe case of Select Deafness to combat the ringing.

I lied to the police.  Though it was the Argentine police, so it practically doesn’t count.

Although I am fairly certain this is still illegal.

Had to report my passport stolen, otherwise they may not have allowed me to leave the country (or fined me, which still means I’d never leave the country to avoid paying).

Yet I felt reporting that my passport was stolen a month ago in a different province would hardly sound spectacularly intelligent, so I may have changed some facts.

Sadly, I am not a particularly talented liar, and was originally informing them that my passport was stolen on Thursday.  If this were true, I would have received a replacement passport four days before I lost the original (I would make a very dumb crook). 

When I realized this, I began shouting in a panic that it was LAST Thursday.  He seemed a bit puzzled by this, but as my Spanish was not exactly at its best and I was accompanied by an incredibly hungover friend who looked as though he may hit the floor at any moment, the nice policeman let it slide.

Then the policeman asked the date of the robbery, and I told him April 19th.  For those of you who do not have a calendar handy, that was a Monday.

I am so clever.

Warm weather seems to have left the area, which presents a bit of a problem for me, as I refuse to wear pants.

For instance, at this very moment, I am shivering and have lost nearly all feeling in my hands, but refuse to change out of my shorts and t-shirt.

I really don’t like wearing pants.

Return to Blogging

I HAVE A GENIE.

This occurred during an exchange of Salt and Vinegar chips, which, as everyone knows, are nearly magical in and of themselves.

Unfortunately, he himself possesses no magical abilities (so perhaps this was a bad deal?).  Fortunately, I did get five wishes as opposed to the regular three, so I suppose I can use those extra two for something superb.

Like a yak.

I was off Facebook for the past few weeks, which was interesting.  Didn’t have a real reason to get self kicked off profile, except for the desire to spend less time chatting with people at home and more time watching 30 Rock.

Mission accomplished.

Was quite excited about my Return to Facebook, actually.  Had all sorts of visions of greatness (wedding announcements, invitations into relations by celebrities, talking animal Youtube links), but the only real excitement was a certain relationship status by a certain Spectacular Someone. 

Yes.  I’m talking about YOU.

My brother is currently in Buenos Aires, which is quite exciting.  This means my Spanish gets lots of practice.

Only sometimes I forget to translate and he’s left blinking and smiling hopefully at the employees.  He’s always a bit peeved when I look at him expectantly for some sort of answer.

This is unfair.  I always translate “si” and “no” without fail.  I’d say I’m ideal.

Speaking of ideal, that’s what I certainly seem to be for the men here.  This is a bit awkward, as the feeling is rarely mutual.

(Side note: my water tastes peculiar.  This is only slightly my fault, as I did add some kind of flavoring into it called “green fruits”, which seemed fairly normal until this very moment in which I can think of absolutely no green fruits.  Certain apples?  Overly ripe oranges?)

At any rate, did a bit of shopping with a friend yesterday and nearly ended up with a dinner date.  Here was our conversation:

Me: Hello!

Strange Shop Man: Hey there. Do you speak Spanish?

Slightly Dumb Me (gesturing at friend): I do, she does some, too.

Strange Shop Man: What’s your name?

Confused Me (thinking: did I miss a step in this conversation!?): …

Strange Shop Man: So what are you doing later?  Want to go get a drink?

Now Very Bewildered Me (feigning sudden deafness and retreating quickly): …

I feel something went very wrong somewhere in the middle.

Was winked at today by a rather attractive motorcycle man.  This is a definite improvement from last week, when I was whistled at by a walking garbage man.  Wouldn’t have been nearly as offensive had he at least had some sort of vehicle to offer.  (Where would our potential children be raised?  A girl has to have standards, you know.)

(Really, this water is STRANGE.)

I return to the United States soon.  Don’t think I’m quite prepared – haven’t even selected a gaucho to bring home with me yet!  (For those of you who think I’m joking, I refer you to the time I took a trip to New Mexico and came home with a cowboy pen pal…  I truly pity my mother.)

This means it’s time to purchase souvenirs for my friends back in the States.  This is a truly terrible time, as I severely lack sanity when it comes to gifts.  Throughout my lifetime, I’ve given a variety of atrocious gifts, ranging from candy bars for anniversaries to used lamps for birthdays.

When abroad, I tend to get too excited and attempt to collect completely ridiculous objects.  I’ve nearly bought dragons (ie Tony) for several people, not to mention that strange ten foot instrument I circled for nearly an hour before discarding the thought.

I’ve bought quite a few bracelets now, in an effort to suppress the urges.  Still, no promises.

I tackled a small child today.  Tripped over a curb.  Brother laughed.

Tomorrow, I shun him.  No more translations.

I win.

Hat.

Think am world’s worst blogger.

As it has been quite some time since updates, I will begin with the most important.

I have purchased a hat!

This is not just any headgear.  It is gangster (just like me!).  More importantly, it is of the Red Bull persuasion.

Think I will wear it in my wedding.

Speaking of which, I have recently decided that any Potential Mate must be put through a variety of tests before any sort of arrangement will be met.  (Naturally, these are merely for others, as I have already found my perfect match in Lee Pace.)

You may first ask yourself the following: What is the most important skill a person can possess?

You’re right.

Walrus tracking.

Kickboxing is also desirable.

But such talents are not enough.  One must be fairly competent in the art of museum curation, capable of running a mile in under an hour, and have graduated from Shark Whispering Academy.

Mr. Pace qualifies in all the above.

His cardboard cutout is also an excellent dancer.

Drinking apple juice prompts me to make thoroughly bad decisions.  I do not understand this.  It seems a bit unfair, really.  Shouldn’t I be able to enjoy a deliciously childish beverage without suffering socially humiliating consequences?

Evidently not.

My birthday is exactly one month from today.  How thrilling!

Hope I get a pony.

For those of you who are not certain, this is not said in jest.

I honestly would like to get a pony.  It would be nice if it were wearing a bow.

Also on my wish list are a German Shepherd and a tiny giraffe.

Both would also be bow-toting.

Often I find horse owners who would be willing to trade their equines for a yak.  This boggles me.  I think I might like to get a yak to give them, but then I must consider why they are making the switch to yaks.  What if I fell in love with my yak and was unable to give it up in the end?

That would be sad.

Maybe I am secretly a Yak Whisperer!  And then I could ride it.  I think I would enjoy that thoroughly. 

I could put a bow on a yak.

I do not know any gang signs.  I am quite familiar with the peace sign, however.  Too bad now I look like a blonde Japanese tourist in a Red Bull hat.

This blog is rather lame, and I apologize for that.  It is a mere gesture toward normalcy. 

Never fear.  Awesomeness will someday soon strike again.

Taking Over Argentina, One Success at a Time.

I used to be a blogger.

That was before I discovered a website on which I could watch literally thousands of old episodes of 30 Rock.

Beginning to feel there is some shame in this.

So, my friends, I commence again.  Blogging.

Blog. Blog. Blog.

You know what I don’t get? 

Who does the laundry in China.  I mean, in all Western parts of the world, the Chinese do the laundry.  So… do Westerners do laundry in the East?

I feel this is a valid question, as here in Argentina, my laundry man only addresses me in Mandarin.  This is a bit unfair, as I do my very best to speak to him in Spanish.

In the end, absolutely nothing is communicated except that I continually and reliably lose socks. 

Registering for classes is like trying to convince a straight man to drive a Smart Car – nearly impossible.  And even when everything appears to be going to plan, you get the sneaking suspicion something has gone terribly wrong.

It is the bane of every college student’s existence.

For Truman State University, this endeavor was held over the past week.  It was impossible to forget, as everyone’s Facebook status was about it.

“Registration – you suck!!!” 

Well.  I did not realize Registration was a functioning being.  I will have to write him a strongly worded letter.

Post-registration, it is common practice to swap horror stories.  Now, logically, rapidly typing in numbers into a computer, then waiting for the Screen of Doom to pop up doesn’t make an actual saga.

College has nothing to do with logic.

The irony of it all is that for as hard as one works to get into a class, NO ONE EVER ACTUALLY WANTS TO TAKE IT. 

Not that this is ever disclosed to the faculty, of course.  We actually frequently write to our (hopefully) future professors, stating how thrilled and privileged we would be if granted the opportunity to take their course.

When met with success, gratitude is shown by not using the first class period for naptime.

Every class period thereafter is fair game.

I like tall people, but sometimes they frighten me.  What if they become self-aware and begin to use their size to their advantage?

Game over for us regular-sized people.

I don’t like my Spanish class (again).  It’s quite embarrassing, being the only one who doesn’t actually speak the language.

Had to get into a debate with a Mexican girl last class.  We were not exactly evenly matched.

She said convincing things, like “In the case of the American economical situation…”

I announced things like, “Dog! Cat! Train!”

Stalemate.

We also had to discuss our perfect match.

I was nearly silent on the issue – not for lack of qualifications, of course, but because I simply had no idea to express things like “good at tying shoes” or “is actually capable of comprehending a map.” 

When I was inevitably called on, I told my class that in my perfect world, the gentleman would know how to do dirty things to a horse.

This is not what I meant.

Somehow, Spanish books only ever taught me this phrase, instead of the much more useful and desirable phrase “to ride a horse.” 

Textbook writers are such jokers.

Helping the Universe!

I think self-help books are funny.  The advice is always just a bit too positive, there is always an excess of exclamation points, and the titles are far too conspicuous.

Which is why I’ve decided to write one.

It’ll be a work of genius.  I’ll save people around the world with my writing!  I may even be nominated for sainthood. 

Though what I’d really like is to be knighted.  I already took fencing lessons, which I assume is a prerequisite.  Think I was pretty good, too.

At least the teacher was afraid when I had a sword in my hand.

But I musn’t get ahead of myself.  First I must practice what I plan to preach.

Which is why today I decided to make a list of all the things I want in life.

When I was done, I had three dog breeds, five actors, and about eighteen potential horse names.

I think I might need some reevaluation.

Society is a frightening place; I never live up to its expectations.

It is not my fault I am prone to interpretive dance.

Within society exists two categories of people.  I politely refer to them as People I Would Like to Talk To and People That Frighten the Bejezus Out of Me.

Unfortunately, the latter seems to be far more common than the former.  This group includes midgets, men with large mustaches, and women carrying briefcases.

Strangely, people always seem to be very prone to talk to me.  My mother has the same problem, so I can only assume it is some kind of hereditary illness that draws people to us like suicidal moths to flames.

Mom’s a lot better at handling it, though.  She’s got all the right listening noises, and backs away slowly enough to avoid suspicion.

Me?  Well, I’m still in Society Training.

When strangers approach me unexpectedly, I go into Defense Mode.  It involves a lot of blinking and the occasional twitch.

Usually gets rid of ‘em pretty quick.

Now I must depart.  I’ve discovered a moth on my clock, and must discuss a plan of action with the Round Table.

Goodnight, Interweb.