Scooby Don't - Avoiding Canine Agression in the Americas

Reconnecting with our buddy Martin meant heading to Juan's Hostel for more rooftop fun. Though we didn't realize it was a birthday party for two girls with at least 15 guests each. This presented a conundrum for giving saludos to everyone there. We obviously went to both the birthday girls, giving them a kiss hello and wishing them a happy birthday, but then merely waved to the rest and said our names, which I thought was sufficient. It appeared that we had made a grave faux pas in our Argentine greetings when the next guests that arrived went around the circle of more than 25 people, giving kisses hello and handshakes to everybody. The kiss hello is an unavoidable Argentine trend. Slightly ostracized from the main group for our lack of manners,  Brent and I decided to head to one of Rosario's biggest clubs.

Taura was on the riverfront, right by the boatstation and the first club that I had been to in a month in Rosario. Clubs are becoming less and less my thing, but I could see how rolling there with a big crew of friends (the only way Argies roll) could be potentially awesome. Walking back however, we decided to cut through the park, trying to take a wide berth around a group of sleeping homeless people. It wasn't wide enough to deter their guard, which was a fairly big dog that rushed out barking at us. Before I even realized what happened, it lunged at me, trying to take a bite out of my leg, I instinctively kicked it square in the face with my boot; causing it to jump back and come back at us again, this time wagging it's tail and head held low. I raised my foot again and scolded it with verbal threats promising the next kick would ruin it's night, and it ran off.

Brent was a little more shocked than me of what had just transpired. "That was crazy! Did you get bit?" No no bites, and at the time, it didn't seem that big of a deal to me. When I had been living in the barrio of La Plata, there were stray dogs everywhere, and though the majority of them have figured out it's easier to win more flies (or bones) with honey, some were a bit territorial. After talking to a couple friends, I was able to establish a couple rules for dealing with dogs in South America:

1. Just mind your business, looking them in the eyes can be seen as an invitation or threat, so as long as you keep walking most will leave you alone
2. Don't get startled or panic. Anytime I've ever been startled by a dog, it has returned the favor, getting more riled up, remember, they can smell your fear, literally.
3. If one does come at you for god's sake DONT RUN! You think you can outrun a dog? They live for this stuff. Just do what I did, stand your ground and yell at it. If it looks like it's coming at you, hit it with a blunt object or kick it in the face. If you present yourself as more trouble than it's worth, the dog will leave you alone, showing it you have no fear is key.

Even if you do get bit, your chances of getting mauled are relatively low, but I hear that Rabies vaccine is 6 needles to the stomach three different times, so it's best to avoid both ; ).

Beach Soccer Hooliganry

Rosario is a really spread out city, the hippest parts of which sit on the West bank of the River Parana. This makes getting around via public transit kind of a pain sometimes. After a 35-minute bus ride, we finally arrived at Playa Florida for some beachtime relaxin'. Though this was soon disrupted by a raucous soccer game, which just sprang up, forcing us up onto the sea wall. We weren't the only ones displaced and affected; the boundaries of the makeshift field were simply drawn around families with small children, I saw a sunbathing older woman take a soccer ball to the head and laugh and throw the ball back. Soccer is king in this country and everybody seems to know it.

Watching Argentines play is an interesting lens into their culture. It's more than just a pick up game on a beach, it's about pride (for this reason I also find Argentine soccer a bit annoying with it's over-the-top machismo). Their ball control is incredible, I was talking to my college friends living in BA who had once found themselves facing chubby 12-year olds in a pick up match and outskilled, outhustled and outmatch.

Later on, we headed to Alta Grande for a Muncipal flotilla that was to take place. The "Caravana de Deseos" (Caravan of Desires) involved an assemblance of maybe 100-200 watercrafts who raced down to the flag monument to place hand-written notes in the River Parana of their future desires for 2010. Policemen mounted on jetskis barking orders at Argentine "sailors" that were obviously too drunk to be piloting anything.

Dogs on the dance floor

Just as my brother and I continued our trend of bringing in the new year in the Southern Cone of the Americas, we also continued our trend (2 years running) of spotting at least one canine companion in the club on New Year's Eve, though he looked like he was about to throw in the towel:

After sleeping off his jet lag for 14 hrs, Brent was ready to explore the city. We went to Rosario's "Monumento de Bandera," a tribute to Manuel Belgrano, who designed the Argentine flag. We then sauntered along the Costanera, watching maté sippers, troubadours and lip-locked lovers enjoy the river scene. My buddy Martin invited me to his friend's hostel for a big NYE party. When we got there, I was a little surprised to find the hostel deserted of guests. Juan, the owner, had just purchased the hostel 2 months ago and was still remodeling.

We had a killer Mexican dinner on the rooftop of the hostel, allowing us a phenomenal view of the fireworks. I even convinced our Argentine host and guests to sample some tiny pieces of jalapeño, "pica mucho!" they exclaimed. One of the rowdier guests kept everyone on their toes by setting off what sounded suspiciously to me like pipe bombs on the other side of the roof. Midnight was the huge fireworks display which we were treated to 360 degrees of, but failed to come close to the magnitude and longevity of the display we had witnessed in Valparaiso one year earlier.

I kept asking Martin if we were ready to hit the club, 2 am, 3 am, 4am passed by until we finally got a posse together to mosey out to the clubs at almost 5 in the morning. I mean, I like an occasional late night but leaving with one hour til sunrise is just ludicrous. We ended up at a club with a huge outdoor patio underneath the contemporary art museum on the waterfront. It was impossible to navigate the swelling masses, but we had a great deal of fun people watching, which got even more interesting as the sun came up. As we walked back towards the hostel, we ran into a couple friends who were still bringing in the new year despite this sudden intrusion of daylight. Brent and I had to respectfully decline, citing our desire to avoid sleeping all day, which in turn, allowed us to spend most of today drinking maté, reading and planning out our Colombia trip in the park.

Let The Races Begin!

"There will now be a 30% discount at the Levi's store for the next 5 minutes," the voice crackles over the loudspeaker. Nothing short of an Argentine stampede rumbles through the mall, seeking out the sound of a bugler blasting out "Camptown Races" in front of the Levis store. "Hurry, hurry, you've only 5 minutes to get in before the sale ends!" cries a tuxedo-clad chamuyero with a megaphone. Little Argentine pixies in flourescent wigs shake their tushies in front as the tux man supervises organized chaos.

It's business as usual every Dec. 23rd in Alto Rosario, a shopping mall in the bourgeois part of town. The 23rd is sort of like their equivalent of "Black Friday," except that it's encouraging excessive spending before the holiday. Every store remains open until midnite, all offering a 20% discount until tuxman makes an annoucement of where the next 30-40% bargain will be for the next 5-15 minutes. For a country that has faulted excessive capitalism (well, American style capitalism) for many of their economic woes, they seem to bring a massive jolt of hyper-consumerism come the holidays.

Trying to bargain hunt in this climate was a bit of a nightmare, so I grabbed a coffee and watched the mayhem unfold. It was fairly organized, some light pushing and shoving; I even saw mall security to separate two brawling boys over a pair of Adidas sneakers. For imported products especially, this day allows Argentines to splurge a little more than usual. I checked the tag of some Levis jeans: 289 pesos, which is like $80 in the US. Granted, some designer jeans in the U.S. cost $200, but Levis? I got mine for $30. The kicker for me was that the every line to get into the sale stores AND the line for ice cream were all longer than the line to meet Santa, which was never more than 2 or 3 people waiting.

Chainsaw Meditation

Sofia rang around 2pm to ask if I wanted to go to "the concert" tonight. I assumed she meant the concert of our mutual friend, Tincho, who has a "Jack Johnson cover band." Apparently I misunderstood (one of those things of speaking another language), as this was the other concert, "this Indian thing" she had told me about a week before. In any case, it was a far stretch to label it a concert, even in Spanish.

As we took off our shoes and arranged yoga mats on what appeared to be a new age dance floor, it became apparent that I was about to embark on a spiritual journey of Indian mantras interpreted by an Argentinian guru. We began with relaxation and breathing exercises before laying down flat with our eyes closed in a sun formation. The guru started by playing long, drawn out notes on an accordion while singing in a similar fashion in a minor key (harmonic minor for all you music cats). She then followed with Tibetan Singing Bowls and various bells.

Then came "the chainsaw," a non-motorized instrument with a pull-cord and an attitude. The noise was supposed to represent the ocean, but sounded more like a tsunami. Sofia later remarked that this broke her concentration, which the guru replied was the objective of learning to move back to a meditative state from those noises that we aren't too fond of. We also had a participatory harmonizing session of singing the Ganesha Mantra that my old music teacher Mark Hoover (or anyone from Vocal Ens.) would have loved. It was a rewarding and worthwhile experience and I may return next week for some yoga by the same Guru.

To nourish our newly awakened spiritual selves, we grabbed some surprisingly tasty vegetarian food at Sana Sana which is a must-do if you're ever in Rosario. Any Argentine place that can take veggies and make them taste better than meat as well as spice up a stir fry is top notch in my book, now on to read more about mantras...

Rooftop Conga Line

Saying "yes" to just about everything that doesn't put your life in danger (and even then, there are exceptions) is an important part of living abroad. So when my flatmate's friend, Sofia, asked if she could have her birthday party on our rooftop patio I was happy to oblige. The only thing was that my flatmate left for Brazil on Tuesday, making me the sole responsible party for our apartment.

I probably wouldn't have agreed if it were the U.S., having had problems with wild and crazy kids causing trouble at past parties, but the partying culture differs a great deal down here. For one, we had a bit of wine and liquor, but no one (save the birthday girl) got really drunk. In spite of their sobriety, everyone was surprisingly open and eager to getting down on the dance floor (which brought out the conga line).

I of course, befriended the DJ, who had brought a guitar and (holy smokes!) a melodica, which only meant a late-night jam session was inevitable. Overall, the level of warmth, friendliness and mutual respect that I got from everyone I talked to that night was really quite amazing. Knowing that I was the host, even the shyest of guests made a pilgrimage to whichever chat circle I was at just to say hello and talk for a bit. However, I think the highlight of the night was getting Argentine props for correctly pronouncing "ferrocarril," which Yanks typically have problems with. I'll leave you with a classic tongue twister that if you master, will demonstrate to even the most skeptical Latino how "UnGringo" you are:

"Erre con erre cigarro, erre con erre barril, rápido ruedan los carros, por los rieles del ferrocarril."

A Room With A View

I actually do have a decent view of Calle Zeballos if I push aside the antique baroque shutters and step out onto the balcony. The 5-room townhouse/apartment complex was purchased in 2007 by Pepe the Spaniard, who had the foresight to sell his home in Barcelona at pre-Economic Crisis prices and purchase property here in Rosario.

For one thing, it's nice just to be living on my own again. Having an extra large room is nice but being able to cook whatever I want whenever I want is something I've been missing for the past 4 months. The location of the Apt is pretty good too, it's about 12 blocks from the "micro center," ie. the big swanky downtown section of the city. Oh and I almost forgot the best part, the price: 900 pesos a month which comes out to roughly $230 dollars. Giddy up, I may stay here a while.