Pictures from Argentina, Categorized

Shot around town

Plentiful: hand-lettered signs and open-late bookstores. Not plentiful: foot traffic on the weekends.

Sigh. South America has pigeons, too.

Lots of street art. This one was my favorite.

Incredibly long street fair in San Telmo. Sneakers and casual attire everywhere. Yay to comfort!

There are many well-trained dogs in Buenos Aires, including this one running security at a local convenience store.

Open train. You can see straight down to the end! We thought this was very cool, but were admittedly very tired.

Potential desktop backgrounds

View of Mt. Fitz Roy from outside El Chaltén

Socked in and maybe a little menacing

“It looks like Land Before Time!” -another hiker clearly not from Argentina

Lake Viedma from our “easy” hike, Mirador de Las Águilas

El Calafate and a horse

Overlooking Glacier Perito Moreno

Glacier = huge

Trees we really liked

White, burnt trees along the trail to Laguna Torre

Gigantic roots at this park in Recoleta, Buenos Aires

We took a selfie

More enormous trees in Buenos Aires. Couldn’t get enough of these beauties.

Death & culture

My steak (entraña) was larger than my plate.

Opera house turned bookstore. Note KJ on the second floor, security watching her from the third.

Pre-tango show wine tasting

Rows and rows of mausoleums at the famous Recoleta cemetery

Meaningful religious statues all over. Also, cats.

Some taller, more elegant chambers for the dead

A little more street art for you. I love how the man is disappearing into the background.

The 18 km hike that involved snow and rain

Leaving town for the trail. Skies look good, right?

Nope. Skies do not look good. Raining.

Forging on

River = glacial run-off

We made it to Laguna Torre

Triumph!

And then it snowed on us

My kind of thrill ride

Riding through the Patagonian steppe

Up, up, up into the sun

Amazing views. Those mountains in the distance are in Chile.

Lago Argentino behind me. Not bad for a one-handed selfie on a horse.

Guanaco (a type of llama). Do you see them?

From a boat, in front of a glacier, fantastic

New friends

Our Calafate crew. They followed us everywhere.

Thanks to my travel buddy KJ, the helpful people of Argentina, empanadas in general and all my Spanish teachers who taught me just enough. Muchas gracias.

One Week in Argentina

If you’re going to Argentina, you might be tempted to watch the 1996 film Evita first. Let me save you some time. It doesn’t hold up. Like, not even a little. No offense to Madonna or Antonio Banderas, of course.

In a few short weeks, I’m off to Argentina with my friend KJ and clearly I’ve been busy trying to prepare. I’ve brushed up on my español (see: the strange sentences Duolingo has given me), found some anti-nausea bars since my inner ear hates boats and got a down jacket for cold-weather hiking that packs up nice and small. (A day after my coat arrived in the mail, I saw a four-year-old boy wearing a very similar version).

One week barely seems like enough time, but I’m excited nonetheless. KJ and I have split the trip in two, so we’ll be spending half the week in Argentina’s capital city and the other half in Patagonia. Rather than try to see everything, we’re going for a balance of culture and nature, noise and quiet. One pill makes you larger. And one pill makes you small.

This is our plan:

Friday night, we fly to Atlanta to catch a red-eye to Buenos Aires. I’ve never been to South America, but I’m eager to go somewhere that doesn’t require intense jet lag. (Cough, India).

From Saturday until Tuesday, we’ll be in Buenos Aires. Our plans here are loose. We’re staying in an Airbnb, which I find is a much more personal way to see a foreign city.  I want to go to El Ateneo Grand Splendid, an opulent theater-turned-bookstore, and KJ wants to watch some polo. We both love walking, so there will be plenty of exploring cool neighborhoods and parks. Maybe even a fancy cemetery or two (probably just one).

May the Argentines never discover Amazon dot com.

Polo: basketball for horses. I think.

After Buenos Aires, we fly to El Calafate and take a bus to El Chaltén. We’ll spend a few days in both places. We considered traveling down there by bus, but turns out that’s a 36-hour journey. We’ll use that time instead to see the glaciers, go hiking and possibly ride horses. The last time I rode a horse was when I was five and unfamiliar with fear.

Photo by Pete Stasiewicz

What’s a big international trip without at least one stupid-stressful travel day? We fly from Patagonia back to Buenos Aires and have six hours to navigate from their domestic airport to their international one. I want to squeeze something fun in this time; KJ doesn’t want to be too dumb about it. We’ll see how the day plays out.

And like that, we’ll be back. Speaking inglés like it never happened.

 

A Fictional Story Based on the All-Too-Real Sentences Duolingo Keeps Giving Me

Geno’s startup company was impressive and growing, even if it was a backyard money-printing scam. His brother, however, had his doubts.

“When are you going to learn?” Raul asked after Sunday family brunch.

Geno tilted his head toward his nephews to see if they felt the same.

“We are going to abandon him,” Raul’s twin sons chirped in unison.

“Very well,” Geno said, leaving to go draw himself a bath. Geno loved a good soak.

Everyone was quiet, including Raul, the twins, Geno’s quiet wife Sara Louise and his not-so-quiet daughter Patricia. (His son Theo was in Rio de Janeiro, making a new acquisition—a high-speed money printer swiped from the Brazilian Mint). The silence was intolerable. Finally, Patricia cracked. She locked eyes with her uncle and said:

“You don’t belong here.”

And so, Raul left.

###

Later, the twins were feeling peeved. Patricia had been awfully curt to their father and Theo wasn’t even there for what was clearly important family business.Rio de Janeiro for a week? Really, Theo? Only Geno and Sara Louise had handled themselves well. The twins, still eager to stay in the money-printing business, asked their friends for advice.

Was Patricia too harsh?

“She can improve,” Smith said after a moment’s thought. Maureen and Damon gave nods in agreement.

But, the twins postulated, this could be the start of a coup. First, Theo and Patricia force Raul out. Then, the twins would be shown the door. And then, their beloved, evil-minded uncle Geno. Theo and Patricia were definitely up to something.

“They can die.” Smith said without a second thought.

Maureen cracked her knuckles, a nervous habit from childhood.

“They are going to pay.”

Damon smiled. He was halfway through dental school, an education he found continually useful.

“And,” he said:

“They are not going to feel anything.”

The twins looked at each other in their twinsy way. What great friends they had.

###

After Geno’s soak, he went to his money shed, or more precisely the shed behind his house where he illegally printed money. The shed had one ground level, plus two underground floors where all the action happened. Unfortunately, the action was not looking good today.

As soon Geno stepped down to the second level, Jen H. quit. She was going to work as a substitute art teacher instead.

“They offer more money,” she shrugged, grabbing her bag and leaving.

That left only Geno, his wife and children, his nephews and the intern, Jen L. Before dropping out of college to pursue a life of crime, she had been a elementary education major.

“They are going to reduce her,” Jen L. said of Jen H.’s decision.

Geno rubbed his temples. There was another problem, too. The neighbors were getting suspicious, asking questions. Too many questions.

“The neighbor can change.”

Theo hopped down the steps. His flight had been delayed, but he finally made it home/to the money shed. Geno was never happier to see him.

“We have work to do, my son.”

###

The next day, the twins planned to confront their cousins while Geno planned to confront his neighbor. The sun was high and the air crisp. A perfect day for confrontations.

“We don’t like what’s going on here,” the twins said to Patricia and Theo.

“Catch me up. What’s going on here?” Theo asked.

“You tell us.”

“We were sleeping and you guys texted and said to come over, and then you texted again and said it was urgent, and then one more time, so we came over and now you’re asking us what’s going on.”

“Patricia was not so nice to our dad. We think you’re up to something.”

“I cannot remember that,” Patricia said matter-of-factly.

“We’ll help you remember.” The twins tied up both cousins. They dragged Patricia out to their car, but when they returned to get Theo, he had escaped.

###

Geno rang The Robertsons’ doorbell. He found friends more useful than enemies and hoped The Robertsons would agree. But when the door opened, it was their babysitter Angela who opened it up.

“Oh, hello there,” Geno said with a warm smile.

Angela had heard about this neighbor. She instinctively crossed her arms.

“You are going to get it.”

She slammed the door in Geno’s face. Oh well, he thought.

###

Geno texted his wife, children, nephews and the only Jen left, Jen L.

EMERGENCY FAMILY MEETING 8 PM.

Am I part of the family? Jen L. beamed.

###

8 pm came quickly enough. Geno and Sara Louise sat side by side in the money shed. Theo looked like he had been roughed up, but he didn’t say a thing. Jen L. wore a giant smile on her face. The twins arrived last with Patricia in tow who, like her brother, was tip-lipped.

“We have a problem,” Geno said.

“Yes, we do,” all four cousins said in unison.

“The neighbors?”

“No, the twins.”

“No, your kids.”

Geno sighed. This was not going to plan. “Patricia, what happened to you?” he said, noticing something was different about her.

“De pulled mah teef!” she yelled, revealing an empty mouth.

The twins countered immediately, “They’re planning a coup, Uncle Geno!”

Jen L. had gone to the bathroom and came back right at “coup.” Everyone but Sara Louise was on their feet.

“You never wait for me,” she complained, but no one heard her. Theo was shouting at the twins who were shouting at Geno who was shouting at Patricia who seemed to be shouting, but was mostly mouthing moaning noises.

Finally, Geno whistled—a soaring, painful sound—and everyone went silent. “Maybe Raul was right. It’s just too much.”

He turned to his wife, the stoic Sara Louise. They were an odd pair and always had been. But the confusion they caused others only made them love one another more.

“What do you think, my sweet?” he asked his Mennonite bride.

“It’s impossible to know,” Sarah Louise said.

Geno caught his reflection in a mirror on the wall.

“You are a man,” he said to himself, and then continued to the room:

“Boys, you crossed the line. Patricia—you have been acting suspicious. And where’s the Brazilian high-speed press, Theo? You’re out. All of you. Now.”

The four cousins looked stunned as they shuffled their feet up the stairs and out of the money shed. Not even Sara Louise would make eye contact.

“Raul was right. I can’t keep doing this. JL, the family business is yours.”

Jen L.’s eyes welled with tears. What a boost this would be to her blossoming criminal career. She hugged Geno and Sarah Louise and promised not to let them down before they too shuffled up the stairs.

“I am going to control this!” she yelled to the empty money shed.

Goodbye to My Dog

On the car ride there, my dad locked eyes with me and my mom.

“We are just looking.”

“Yes, we know,” I said.

“No buying,” my dad said.

“No buying,” my mom said.

Cut to Raleigh. Small, yellow and without the ability to slow himself down before sliding into walls. His ears were soft, his paws were soft, his eyes were full of life. We shared the backseat on the car ride home.

I whispered to him, the runt of the litter, that everything was going to be great. He had never been in a car before. We had never owned a dog before. At that point, we didn’t even own a leash.

***

Raleigh quickly became one of us: athletic, curious, loving, obstinate and skilled at taking naps. He learned how to use a pillow and how to nose open a door. He liked to play frisbee but only for a few throws. If you tried to run with him, he’d zig zag in front of you, a true defender at heart. If you tried snuggling next to him, he’d have no problem getting up and moving away from you. He was a Randel in many ways.

These were the names he would respond to: Raleigh, Raleigh Roo, Rals, Rooster, Mr. Wandel, Pumpkin Butt, Shmoopers/Shmoop-a-loop.

These were the words we had to spell out if we wanted to discuss them in his presence: BEACH, COOKIE, FRISBEE, FOOTBALL.

One of Raleigh’s favorite games involved swiping a dish towel so we’d have to chase him around the house. Rooster loved swimming and would frequently embarrass us by going to the bathroom in a crowded Lake Michigan. With age, he slowed down. His favorite thing became sneaking out of the house so he could lay out in the sun. He loved the sun and snow.

Once I watched my dad and Rals hang out on our block with a few neighbors. There were two distinct groups: the dads sipping beers in a circle and the dogs running around, chasing one another. Raleigh? He was sitting nicely in the dad circle, lapping up whatever booze they spilled. After a while, he stood and walked back to our house, abandoning my dad in the street like: Eh, you do your thing. I’ll do mine.

The most amazing thing about Raleigh was not how much he changed, although he did. He went from a small ball of mischief to a big-hearted curmudgeon. He stopped stealing napkins off people’s laps and started joining my parents as they did yoga. He sat by my brother’s feet when he played guitar. He helped me finish my string cheese.

The most amazing thing about Raleigh was how much he changed us. My family was in love with him. If he did something cute, we immediately had to call the others, even if it was something as simple as him sitting on the top of the steps with his favorite blanket. He got us to use goofy voices and yell phrases like, “Where’s blue football?!” Neighbors I didn’t even know knew Raleigh. We took him on long walks and let him hold the leash in his mouth on the way back. My mom once tried to ride her bike with him running alongside—a hilarious failure.  For holidays, we bought him bones too big to fit through doorways. He joined us on road trips, both long and short. My brother and I took him hiking in southern Illinois. One time he travelled ten hours to State College, PA with my parents, just to surprise me. The three of them walked the 5K I had organized. They finished in last place.

Raleigh brought us together. At a time when we were drifting—my brother was two years into college when we got Rals and I was two years away—Raleigh made us feel more together. More of a family. He made us complete.

Yesterday was Raleigh’s last day. I’ve never known anyone who lived as fully as he did. He was there, in every way. I am going to miss him, my big yellow dog who was scared of flies. He was the best.

 

Two Fillings

Note: I’m about to spoil parts of the 2014 movie The Skeleton Twins. If you care about that sort of thing, stop here.

I didn’t know how nervous I was until I was sitting in the waiting room, watching the before-and-after rotten teeth slideshow. On the left: small, misshapen yellow tooth stumps. On the right: so-white-you-may-go-blind veneers. On the left: dull, crooked squares that appeared to be organizing themselves in a huddle. On the right: shining rabbit eyes.

Earlier, at precisely 3:59 am ct, I woke up to catch the first flight of the day from Chicago to Philly. When my plane landed, a little after 9 am et, I took a cab to work. Now, at 6 pm et, I was woozy with a lack of sleep and feeling anxious about getting two (of four) cavities filled. Two fillings today, two more next week.

Somewhere between the filmy chocolate milk teeth and the jagged, off-the-richter-scale grin, the dental hygienist called my name. This was it.

She walked me back to the room—clean, sparse, white, the perfect metaphor for your average aspiring mouth—and told me to set my bag in the corner. I fumbled for my headphones. Another dentist had allowed me to listen to music once and since my tolerance of pain is around a 10 on a 1,000 point scale, I planned to ask again.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” the hygienist said before I could ask. “I’ll get you the movie goggles and you can pick something off of Netflix to watch.”

I’ll wait while you re-read those magic words. Movie goggles?! Netflix?!

The hygienist, who is playing a larger-than-anticipated role in this story and will henceforth be called Sally, handed me an iPad. Would you like to know the top picks for patients about to get routine dental work in the Philadelphia area? Mostly mainstream TV shows: Friends, Mad Men, Scandal. But would a TV show be long enough to last through two fillings? It was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.

Next on the list was a movie I’d been wanting to see. All I could remember about The Skeleton Twins was that one scene from the trailer where Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig lip synch “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now.” Good actors; a least one goofy scene; no apparent thriller, horror or dentistry tropes; movie selected.

Sally handed me the movie goggles with built-in headphones and told me to leave one earbud out so I could hear the dentist when she walked in. From this point on, I could see nothing and no one except for Kristen and Bill.

The dentist walked in and started talking to me like I didn’t have a movie strapped to my face. Then, she numbed me up with a strange, minty gel. This was it. My mouth began to feel disassociated from my body, a sensation I can confidently say I do not like.

As she poked my gums with a needle I couldn’t see, I watched Bill Hader attempt suicide. Seriously, Bill? My nervousness only intensified.

And then the drilling began. Or what I assumed was drilling because I couldn’t see. This was really it. Something dripped from the side of my mouth. Could have been anything as far as I was concerned: spit, blood, stomach acid, another crucial internal liquid.

Sally put the suction hose in my mouth right as Kristen Wiig took off her scuba mask, clearly contemplating suicide (Kristen, not Sally). Why didn’t I realize this was a suicide movie? I should have went with Friends.

“You’re doing great!” the dentist said despite me doing nothing.

She hammered in the two fillings (or what felt like hammering) and had me bite down. My left hand was shaking from nerves. So much awfulness was happening, although most of it to fictional characters.

Sally did the suction thing again. Opening my mouth was getting harder even though I was feeling it less and less.

“OK, you can take off the goggles. We’re all done.”

Oh. I survived? I survived. The dentist told me the cavities were smaller than she expected and recommended holding off on filling the other two, on the other side.

Glory hallelujah!

I went home exhausted, happy and with a mouth like a sandbag. I did the only thing I reasonably could do and finished the movie. Turns out Kristen Wiig played a dental hygienist. The whole time! And just for the record, the total number of seen or suggested suicides: six. Eight if you count the goldfish. Friends, people, always choose Friends.

 

My Stint as a Smuggler

On New Year’s Eve, my brother Scott gave me a simple task. I was to find out what kind of ring his girlfriend Dana might like. And of course, be cool about it.

I hadn’t seen Dana in a few months and it’d be a few months more till I’d see her again. This was my chance.

I was determined to be smooth and I was. So smooth, in fact, that I didn’t ask Dana a single question about rings, diamonds, settings, weddings, relationships, jewelry, accessories or even circular objects. I didn’t ask her anything. I completely and totally failed, a fact my brother was not shy about expressing.

Either as chance for redemption or plain punishment, I was sent hundreds of pictures of rings. Over and over, the question was, Would Dana like this? It’s always safer to say no than yes and I said no a lot, continuing my role as Unhelpful Sister Number 1.

Finally, my brother gave me a task that played to my true strengths: cunning spirit, deft hands and ability to omit the truth with reckless abandon.

Like that, I became a smuggler.

With painstaking attention to detail, Scott designed a ring for Dana and—to avoid Cook County taxes—had it shipped to my little office in the city of brotherly love. My mission was to tell no one, not open the box, not let it leave my sight, smuggle it across the country in a carry-on bag the following day and deliver my brother’s most expensive (and carefully plotted) purchase safely to him.

The day the package was supposed to arrive, I was in an all-day brainstorm session on the other side of the office. I left a note on my desk saying where I was, so that whoever signed for the package would know to bring it to me. My brother had been adamant about me not letting it out of my sight.

I knew there’d been a misunderstanding when I got this email.

The ring was safe, so I wisely chose to not tell my brother about the email until right now.

I borrowed a second duffle bag from my roommate, packed what is clearly a gigantic package for an engagement ring and flew to Chicago. An overweight man with a deviated septum slept next to me on the plane, and at times on me, as I protected the ring-in-a-box-in-a-bag tightly between my feet.

I delivered it to Scott the next day in a public space with a lot of noise. That wasn’t part of the plan, but it felt right. We waited another a day to open the box and admire the ring.

My brother did an amazing job.

Where I met my brother for the “drop off.” I’m shielding the package from the camera, as the consummate professional does.

The ring, ladies and gentleman.

Fast-forward to today. Scott and Dana are engaged. Our parents are thrilled. And the CIA has already contacted me about utilizing my stealth services in the near future.

27 is the Year for Anything

I’ve been noticing this trend on blogs where every sentence is its own paragraph.

Not really my style.

But clearly, I’m trying it out.

You see, it relates to this recent revelation I had.

Ahem:

27 is the year you can do absolutely anything.

You’ve saved up maximum money but still have minimum responsibility.

You’re not too old to be childish but not too young to be mature.

You can be the babysitter or you can hire the babysitter.

You’re free to wear jorts or go for the pants suit with pumps.

OK to live out of a backpack, traveling the world.

OK to start a global backpack business.

Now, picture a line graph.

The first line: maturity, rising with time.

The second line: your ability to enjoy hedonism, falling (slowly).

The sweet spot where they meet?

27.

It’s the pinnacle of life and you’re right in the middle.

How to Say Goodbye

Endings are tough. Unless you’re leaving a terrible job, saying goodbye is always a little painful. I mean, even if you are leaving a terrible job, do you bid an awkward farewell? Set fire to the front door? There’s no clear answer.

I’m a big fan of the French exit. It’s so easy. First, you plant your feet and stand up. And then you walk away without a word. Don’t confuse this with an Irish goodbye, which requires a bladder full of beer.

However, not all situations are right for a French exit. It takes a well-trained eye to tell if the moment is right to shady bounce, as my friend Lisa dubs it. Here’s a cheat sheet:

Good times to French exit

• Almost all parties
• Stuffy weddings
• Corporate picnics & BBQs
• After performing at an Austrian singing competition held by the Nazis

Bad times to French exit

• Job interviews
• As your name’s being called at an award ceremony
• As your number’s being called at a deli

Now, let’s just say you’re in an un-French exitable situation. You must say goodbye. And it’s to someone you care about, someone you’d rather not see go. How do you say it?

“It’s not goodbye, it’s see you later” is off the table. You can do better.

“Sooo…I guess this is it” feels awfully sheepish.

“Th-th-that’s all folks!” only works for cartoon pigs.

How do you say goodbye?

I probably should’ve been upfront about this, but I don’t know. Like most people, I’m just making it up as I go along. (My working definition of adulthood).

But here’s what I think: a good goodbye is not universal, but specific. Not sappy, but thoughtful. It may feel a little uncomfortable, but it’s better to acknowledge something ending than ignore it out right. A good goodbye means something, and not just to you.

Goodbyes aren’t easy because finality isn’t easy. But without the goodbyes, there’d be no room for the hellos.

(Just try not to run into the person five minutes later because it’s even more awkward the second time around.)

Your YouTube Pick-me-up

If you’re feeling down and out, chances are watching dumb videos on YouTube isn’t going to help.

But it couldn’t hurt to try, right?

Below is a short collection of videos that almost always make me smile, laugh and, in some cases, guffaw. Feel free to add your own recommendations in the comments.

Catchy music, amazing dancing, a relevant lyrical message: this one’s good.

 

There’s something about unwarranted anger that I find totally hilarious.

 

This one’s for the old-school Disney fans. My favorite part? The hair flip at 7:35. Kid kills it.

 

If what you seek is a pep talk, look no further. Jim Valvano is the master.

 

Twenty minutes of Ron Swanson dancing drunkenly; enjoy, friends.

 

 

So You Think You Can India

The first thing I noticed was the honking. So much honking. There’s the “heads up, I’m coming through” honk, the “you have five seconds to move” honk and, my favorite, the “hey random animal, outta my way” honk. Every drive is a noisy ride.

Then, the smell seeps in. It’s part fuel, part exotic spices and part shit. I don’t know any better way to say it. The smell, not in every place but in many, is shitty.

But India likes to surprise, so after discovering the odor and din, I would come across a view like this:

Unreal, right? That photo was taken inside the Taj Mahal. And then there’s this shot of Udaipur from Sunset Point:

I only saw a small part of Rajasthan, let alone India. Still, it was exhausting: rich foods, followed by an uncharacteristic loss of appetite; gorgeous greenery along the road, men peeing next to it; serene walks through ancient temples, uncomfortable eye contact with mangy camels.

Uncomfortable—yes, that’s the word. At tourist sites, Indians would snap photos of us like we were the attraction they were there to see. I wanted to yell, “I’m not famous, I’m just white!” Men on motorbikes pulled over to hit on us several times. At dinner before Holi, we heard cannons and saw giant bonfires. A power outage soon followed. The line between celebration and chaos seemed awfully blurry to our American eyes.

There was another uncomfortable feeling, too. At Agra Fort, we learned the shah always had men playing drums and women throwing flower petals as he entered his palace. At my friend’s wedding, men played drums and women threw flower petals as we entered the, yes, palace where it was held. When we stayed at an apartment in Delhi, a maid served us—meals, cleaning, information, whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted it. This royal treatment was of noticeable contrast to the discord outside.

Each breathtaking view was balanced out with a child beggar tapping on the window of our car. Likewise, all the unusual smells were countered with lively music (that will be stuck in my head for a long, long time), awe-inspiring architecture, kind locals and the best wedding I’ve ever been to. India is a gem, in that it has more sides than you can possibly see with a single look.