Where is Uruguay?

¡¿Viva Slovenia?!

2010-04-12T22:25:00.001-04:00

Slovenia! The country most known for the sizable population of Americans who don't even know it exists – beating out Myanmar by a Slovenian donkey hair (do they even have donkeys?). From what I saw today at the Buenos Aires Feria de Eslovenia, what they do have is a great deal of traditional head gear that would make the pope jealous, and a hefty supply of sausage. And if the proportions are correct, based on this miniscule festival thousands of miles from their home, 1 in 50 Slovenians have stunning blue eyes and an interested American boy.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I was invited to the Slovenia festival. It covered a two block radius (I'm almost certain that's the size of Slovenia), and it was packed full; one can assume all of Slovenia was in attendance. Circling the area were large displays of Slovenian information explaining how they came to Buenos Aires and possibly why they have a Barbershop octet singing at full volume on stage. Also, as the pedestrian traffic lights blinked red on the blocked off street, a large crowd circled several traditional Slovenian dancers.

I'm hoping their style pops up on “So You Think You Can Dance”.

I was determined to educate myself on the deep roots of Slovenian lifestyle. Which naturally calls for a traditional Slovenia beer – as they would say, “an empty sack can't stand upright”. Yeah, I don't get it either. Nevertheless, the beer went down smooth. Slovenia isn't looking so slovenly now.

As we were heading out, one of the festival officials eagerly handed us a catalog of traditional Slovenian food and a map of Slovenia. Had I been anyone else, I would have thought, “Ha, like I'll ever need that.” However, had a few more Slovenian beers been sloshing around in a sausage filled stomach and the phone number of that blue-eyed milk maid been in my pocket, I would have soon found myself in the back alleys of Ljubljana, dancing to the chanting men and wondering what Myanmar looks like.

Pillow Planetarium Mayham

2010-04-07T17:29:00.000-04:00

A giant pillow fight. Just the idea of it is enough to make your inner child put on their jammies and jump up and down on the bed. By the way, my inner child just swept the legs out from under your inner child, you have to watch out for that.

The air was crisp, the sun was shining, and I could have sworn she said to meet in front of the entrance at 4. I was invited to the “Buenos Aires Flash Mob – Pillow Fight” from a girl on couchsurfing.org, but I didn't see her. In fact, I didn't see anyone with a pillow. My inner child felt like he was left at the soccer game again. As I was about to leave, we met eyes. That is, my eyes met the bag of pillows she was carrying. Dreams do come true.

In 2006, the first Buenos Aires pillow fight brought in over a thousand people. In 2008, there were several hundred. They had tried one in February of this year, but less than fifty people showed up. After Silvana and her friends set up the group on Facebook for April, three thousand people joined. Yet, it was nearly the hour to begin and only a few scattered people had arrived with pillows.

We talked to a photographer from the Associated Press as people came and went around the planetarium. Silvana bobbed in her seat, demanding more ¡peelows! I helped by doing pillow calls. Which is smacking someone with a pillow closest to you. Pillows go crazy for that sound. Trust me, it worked. Before we knew it, the whole lawn was filled with pillow warriors.

One of Silvana's friends took charge (I assume since he was the only one with a whistle). He circled everyone together, i.e. set the tinder in place. Then came the spark. Someone yelled, and the whole area went up in feathery flames. People who had been sitting calmly just a minute before were now wielding their “goodnight moon” pillow like a battle ax. High school girls were taking on overgrown futbol hooligans.

After a five-minute blaze through the crowd with two pillows swinging maniacally around my head, I stepped out for a second and talked to a funny, shaved head Argentine with a metal t-shirt on. He said in the first ten minutes, a girl had peed her pants, some guy lost his watch, and another almost broke his camera. At one point, feathers exploded into the air and the crowd gasped; all that remained was an empty piece of cloth.

For the next hour and a half, the fights would come to a stand still, then suddenly break out again – usually focused on one person. Here are a few signs you're about to be pummeled by two hundred people with fluffy weapons of war:

- Someone shouts your name, or describes something ridiculous you're wearing (Dressing up like Where's Waldo sounded like a good idea before you left home, I know)
- You're a tiny girl with friends that have a malicious sense of humor.
- You try to get everyone's attention
- And the worst of all... You tell everyone that the fight is over.

When the group of coordinators, that is, Silvana and her friends, decided to leave nearly two hours after it had started, the pillows were still in full motion and the ground was littered with bits of foam. One guy was smiling with a bloody lip, the Argentine with the metal t-shirt had a bruise on his head. and my battle wound was a red, watery eye (a.k.a tears of manliness).

Twice they had made their last comments, thanked everyone from coming, and then were promptly attacked by the giggling mob. In the end, all they could do was walk away from the wildfire and see if it lasted until bedtime, in which the pillow fight would become an epidemic. Well, at least one can dream.

It Takes Three to Tango

2010-03-27T11:52:00.002-04:00

I place one hand solidly around the small of her back, and take her hand with the other. We stand inches apart as I move, my chest pushing her forward. Our feet glide as one, step by step across the smooth wooden floor. Her long legs anticipate my movements, the scent of flowers drifts off her hair, and her milky soft hands lay firm in mine. The tango is a dance of passion, firmly connecting the instinctual roles of feminine and masculine; and had this woman been fifty years younger, I might have sensed some of that.

This was my first class of tango in Buenos Aires and it was already an experience. Although I had come to class with a stunning, radiant girl from Oregon, I soon found myself in the firm grasp of my long lost Argentine grandmother. She gave a polite smile as I attempted maneuvering her around the several other couples in the small dance studio with the “basic steps” I had learned. These basic steps being successive quick and slow movements, depending on the beat of the music. I didn't even hear the music at that point, my only goal was not to crush her ancient toes. In order for two to tango, a third is necessary: the teacher.

Hypatia had arrived earlier in the week on a twenty-five hour trip from Oregon to Argentina with no other goals in mind than to dance the tango, drink wine, and relax. Somehow, I couldn't argue with that and we quickly signed up for an eight-day tango package at the local dance school. Other than the place being peculiarly hard to find (before crossing through the art gallery, you make a left at the picture of a midget sumo wrestler holding a birdcage), it was perfect. There were two rooms, one slightly bigger than the other, and classes were held all day, nearly every day. This excited Hypatia; she considered dropping nursing school to live in Argentina and dance the tango. I agreed to be her partner as long as she learned to be as graceful as my new tango grandma.

Over several weeks, different teachers taught us posture, walking posture, the eight-count (with the right posture), “ochos” and “crusadas”, and they did mention a thing or two about posture. Machismo is almost the foundation of the tango posture. The teacher repeated, “Chest up and out, shoulders relaxed.” Inevitably, every two minutes he repeated it directly to me. Finally he took things into his own hands. What I mean is, he took me into his own hands, and placed me in the exact position, opposite his. Holding his hand and wrapping my arm around his back, my mind had conflicting signals. I wasn't sure I wanted to feel manly right now.

After the first day, I had muscles in my lower back ache that I didn't even know existed. I found myself sticking my chest out at the grocery store, in restaurants, and while inexplicably helping old ladies cross the street. I made sure to remind Hypatia to stick her chest and butt out too... for the respect of the tradition. She reminded me, in turn, men lead the dance, so if she makes any mistakes, it's my fault. So I lead her into the kitchen to make me a sandwich.

When we had gotten a very basic idea of moving around a dance floor, we decided to attend a Milonga, which is a local dance hall, playing all sorts of music, mainly tango. We had found a girl on my favorite travel social network, www.couchsurfing.org, who knew about tango and invited us out with a couple of her friends.

The first thing I learned about Milonga versus a dance studio is space. There is none. Dozens of couples filled the floor for each song, leaving pockets of air between the quick and graceful professionals and the skittish and hesitant amateurs. It was like I had learned to swim the backstroke, then I was thrown into a bathtub. When I took Hypatia out for a dance, I found I not only had to watch out for stepping on her feet, but also all the other surrounding women. Luckily, as a kid I mastered "Minesweeper" on the computer.

I came to notice that the intensity and technicality of the dance is the man's responsibility. Women taking a first class tripped over the men they were with, but once in the hands of the teacher, they looked like they had been raised in three-inch tango heels. On our third class, the teacher took Hypatia to show a few moves. She whipped around him with youthful grace, her legs gliding through the air, following his every move. When she was done, I said, “wow, way to show off.” She laughed, “I have no idea what I did. Did that look okay?”

It's nice to know eventually I'll be able to take all the credit for the dance. Right now, though, I am only taking credit for my macho posture.

The River of January

2010-02-08T10:16:00.001-05:00

The beauty of Brazil, Rio de Janiero, was built up by billionaires, bomb-shelled by poverty-driven crimes, and populated with the entire spectrum of humanity: slum lords to silver spoons. It's pretty crazy, I guess is what I'm saying.

Our Boeing 747 hovered over the unquestionable wonder of the world. Its landscape exploded with living mountains. Of all luring environments, Rio de Janiero stands out as South America's glittering jade in the sand. Also as it's cash cow, which is wearing jade.

We taxied to the airport after landing; old broken airplanes lined the grassy medians - relics of older times. The mountains stood confidently from ground-level, striving, despite the expanding life below them. Clouds hovered above. The postcards hadn't lied.

As is the nature of travel, only a brush stroke of a masterpiece can be seen on my brief journeys. Yet, this stroke inspires a striking curiosity, a spirit of hopeful adventure, and an excuse to drink a lot of the local alcohol and call yourself cultured. Three days was my brush stroke and I crave to return to fill in the clouded background – as well as refill my cup of caipirinha – cane alcohol mixed with your choice of fruit.

Our cab driver didn't know our hotel and circled the streets. I took the opportunity to watch the local life: the old hairy men wearing nothing but stretchy Speedos, the women in less than modest beach clothing, the coconut vendors and shirtless trash collectors with their wooden carts. Though mildly dirty, the tacky atmosphere known in most beach towns was absent. Instead, the scents of wilderness lingered, capturing the ghosts of the first colonies, of disorganization and a slight apprehension, yet compelling in its imperfection. Oh, and did I mention Speedos?

Nathalie, her two French friends, Dimitri and Fabianny, and I met to grab lunch off of Copacabana Beach. Walking down the street opposite the ocean, I snapped photos of trees growing sideways out of the sidewalk – natural benches for the local artisans whose artwork was displayed in a little tented market. The blue horizon blurred, ocean with sky. Across the four-lane road, dark-skinned locals played soccer-volley ball intensely. Although hungry from the trip, I still felt an urge to walk on the sand and gaze thoughtlessly at the powerful picture in front of me. Of course my urge to gorge myself on a seafood buffet was greater and we soon made it to the restaurant.

In three days, the four of us saw five major tourist sites.

1. The Beaches: Copacabana and Ipanema.
2. The lagoon
3. The fort
4. The big Jesus
5. As many restaurants and bars as there are meals in a day.

Merely a glimpse of Rio was all I was allotted on this trip. I spent the majority of the time watching the French speak French, the Brazilians speak Portuguese, and the Spanish wonder what happened to their language.

I had no big adventure, no major epiphanies, no hassles, hang-ups, or hangovers. It was moderately marvelous. I feel like I missed something though, like the party was just about to start. The calmness seemed almost inappropriate for the awing location. It was too luscious to be so serene. Too warm to cause such laziness. Too picturesque to be so populated. It was as if I were visiting the idea of Rio. It's imagined hills, covered in favelas. It's rumored lagoon, circled with joggers and bikers, kids in go carts and fruit vendors on the side. Surreality surrounded me atop the mountain, standing beneath the large Jesus, watching the fog come in and fade his image into a mere shadow. The speckled landscape below became smudged and blurry, blocking any formation of memories. As if Rio preferred to be a forgotten thought, savored only in the moments of being experienced.

On the third night, a monstrous thunderstorm moved over the city as Nathalie and I headed to the airport. The flights delayed a couple hours as the torrents of water washed away all traces of my stay. It could all have been a false memory. It was too perfect to be real. One day I'll go down the looking glass, through the wooden wardrobe, across the river Styx, tackle the jade wearing cash cow, and demand a more realistic vacation.

Sao Paulo and the Vehicle Monsoon

2010-01-29T15:35:00.000-05:00

Sao Paulo is the definition of a city. If you look up 'city' in the dictionary, you'll see a picture of me, stuck in a two-hour traffic jam from the International airport, mumbling, “ugh, Sao Paulo is the definition of a city.” Below, you'll see: 2. (noun) a mind-numbing mass of people crazy enough to live in one area. See also, Tokyo, Mumbai, and giant African ant hills.

Denilo, a German descendent, Brazilian raised, entrepreneur, model, and part-time driver stood waiting for me, with a sign at the airport - 'Kevin.'
“Were you sitting on the wheel?” he asked after I shook his hand.
“Huh?”
“You got here fast.”
“Ah... Ha.” Was that Brazilian humor, or regular humor on three hours of sleep?

Denilo was outgoing and talkative. We had a forty-five minute conversation about cars. My knowledge of cars goes as far as hearing the model of a car, and instantly knowing whether it's funny sounding or not. Silverado, not funny. Saab, funny (I'd Saab if I had that car). Car conversations must be ubiquitous here, as Sao Paulo has more than 8 million vehicles trickling down the streets. Yes, 8 million. Imagine staring at a highway, non-stop, for two months, and never seeing a break in the cars honking by. That's about 8 million. In Sao Paulo though, it never stops.

Later in the week, I explored the city by foot – which is like admiring a two-story mural with a magnifying glass. For a thirty minute stretch of walking down one road, I saw nothing but car dealerships. Most cars were slightly out of my price range: Mercedes, Jaguar, BMW; they may as well have had the bat mobile. Not to mention, all the cheap cars, the Hondas and Fords. Every conceivable make or model of car is bought here or brought here. Basically, Brazilians make American car lovers look like Amish car mechanics.

If it weren't enough to flood the city with vehicles, Sao Paulo also has the largest fleet of helicopters. They can be heard throughout the day, circling the city with the rich and powerful. I'm thinking of opening a business of helicopter taxis – although, the altitude and the fare could easily be mixed up.

Despite Sao Paulo's infestation of four-wheeled smog producers, the city is so immense that calm streets can still be found throughout the metropolis. I walked down the wealthy streets of Rua Brazil and Rua Groenlandia to find tree-covered mansions guarded by barbed wire, security cameras, and private security guards lazily watching TV on the boxy 6-inch screens. I'm almost positive they were watching a show about cars.

Off Paulista, the main strip lined with immense skyscrapers, a small sanctuary of greenery hides from the traffic. A recreation of the amazonian jungle penetrates the earth of several blocks, reclaiming it's once lush home. The clustered maze of different palms, vines, leaves, and branches block out nearly any view of cement highrises. In fact, trees are sneaking around all over the city, grasping onto concrete walls and wiggling through sidewalks. However, If I were a tree here, I would definitely sell my body to get a Ferrari.

Although intimidating, Sao Paulo was growing on me. I saw why so many people could live here. An aliveness and foundational respect for plants helps the city bloom. However, while hugging the trees, a drop of water hit me on the head like Newtons apple and I remembered that all this green needed water. Lots of water. I estimated a monsoon's worth. Which is exactly what dropped out of the sky five minutes later. Meanwhile, I had no umbrella and no taxi, which went perfect with my no sense of direction.

As I waited under an awning, examining my map, a guy ran up with a cardboard box over his head, tossed it into the trash and ran inside. This man knows his city. I grabbed the cardboard box and braved the weather. Soon, I was walking calf deep in puddles, my shorts were soaked, and my shoes squished like sponges. By the time I reached the apartment, I looked like I'd swam there.

Sao Paulo still has much to offer me, but next time I go out, I'm taking my helicopter taxi.

The Price of Silence (is about seventy-five bucks)

2010-01-20T19:49:00.000-05:00

It was three in the morning when we stopped in a Chinese-run convenience store with pay phones. Jesus plopped into the chair, grabbed the phone, and told the person on the other line Wilson was a thief. The Chinese cashiers stared at us. William assured them he had no weapons by lifting his shirt and showing off his hips. He continued buzzing to me about Wilson (shirt still to his chest) – Wilson switched the bill; he was in cahoots with the bartender; why did he disappear?

Two hours earlier, we all stood on the third floor platform of the dim, neon-lit dance club, located in the locals' area 'Once'. A mammoth of a boy bobbed back and forth in front of us, eyes wide, enjoying his own story about knocking someone out. He grinned, several teeth were missing from his square jaw, “Security” was written on his t-shirt. This burly bouncer originally approached the four of us because he thought the boys' cigarettes might be weed. Satisfied they were destroying their bodies legally, he stayed and exchanged tales of violence with the guys and living the tough life. I wanted to contribute, but my only violent tale is when I hit my friend in elementary school and his eyelashes got caught in his glasses. I was immediately sorry. I didn't share, though; as I guest, I didn't want to out-man them.

We had arrived early at the club, around 1AM. The bouncers at the front frisked us and one of them took my pen. It was like a prisoners ball. Inside, shy teenagers lined the sides of the empty dance floor, waiting for the crowds to arrive. I realized I paid for the first round of drinks when little change returned from a big bill. How fortunate, I've been meaning to be more unintentionally generous. We watched as the bartender poured more than six different liquors into a neon-green bucket, large enough to have a warning for drowning infants. The bartender popped in four straws. In addition, she handed us two Slurpee-sized cups of a dark liquid. I could have paid her to stab my liver instead.

As more people arrived, more cigarettes singed away, the smoke clouded against the ceiling. No matter where you are in the world, teenagers everywhere think it's cool to smoke. When older, it's cool to tell everyone you're quitting. I may start, purely to quit.

The bucket of liquor got lighter and the other two cups were poured in. Some people don't like mixing their drinks, but it's really like throwing all your trash in one bag. Someone's going to take it out eventually... I'm not sure what my metaphor means, but it seems suitable. Go with it.

Flash forward, Quentin Tarantino style! Outside, Jesus, William, and I wandered to a street corner and a red hatchback slowed to the curb. Jesus and William tried to open the door and the car sped off. That was a very lazy way to hijack a car. Calmly, they walked to the other side of the corner and another red car pulled up. This time they opened the door and hopped in. When in Argentina...

Flash, again! Wilson stepped to the cashier to make the order. He and I were downstairs getting a refill on the bucket. I glanced at the dance floor. For the second time, I met eyes with a cute girl dancing in a circle of friends. Wilson turned and asked me for some money, I handed him a large bill, the only one I had. The bartender examined the bill; he flicked it, turned it over, held it under the light, and handed it back. “No sirve nada” - It's no good.

Wilson asked me for another bill. I told him that was my last one. Wilson handed the cashier the bill again and tried to negotiate. The cashier wrote on a little slip of paper. We slid over; the bartender looked at the paper, and gave us nothing. I guess the paper said, “Hey Bernice, why haven't you returned my calls? Oh, and I totally jacked these kids' money, BOO-Yah!.. but really, call me back.” I'd been bamboozled. Maybe the bill truly was fake. Maybe they didn't read the paper right. Maybe I should ask that girl to dance... We split up to find Jesus and explain what happened.

Jesus ran into me and I tried to explain the story. His red eyes showed thin signs of understanding. I finished and he stormed the cashier. The cashier handed Jesus the bill and let him look at it. Jesus flipped it around and handed it back. “Wait!,” I said in my head. “At least let me have the damn bill!” Jesus wandered off to the front. Sometimes, in a foreign country, I assume people know what they're doing. This shouldn't have been one of those times. Tonight it cost me $75 to learn to speak up.

Early that evening, after dinner, Pat, Bob, Veronica, William, Wilson, Jesus, and I gathered for a glass of champagne. It was Jesus' birthday. I hadn't planned on going out, but two hours later, we sat with four wine bottles, two bottles of champagne, three liters of beer, and a liter of cider, all empty. The boys decided to go out, and invited me along. I figured, an adventure is always awaiting...

Getting ready, Jesus suggested I wear different shoes. Nike's were better than my low-cut running shoes. I put on jeans and a green striped polo shirt; they said I looked good, I fit in. They laughed, but these were the clothes of thieves. I had to ask them to repeat that; we looked like college kids on the way to a prep rally. Thieves? They explained that kids who wear these clothes, in the part of town we're going to, are considered thieves, because, “How else could they afford these clothes?”

Well, for one, they could work as bartenders.

Chauffeuring Street Kids 2: Revenge of the Shift

2010-01-10T12:21:00.001-05:00

In this mangled metropolis, I am a born-again driver. I shift gears with lightning reflexes. I slash across lanes flawlessly. I attempt to change the station on the radio... Still working on that one. Only one test remains to become a certified Argentine road warrior. The highway. Or as they define it in my Spanish dictionary, “El Diablo Gigante con Pantalones del Fuego”. Don't ask where I got this dictionary.

This time around, William and his little girl decide it might be safer to walk through the shanty towns by the train tracks, flashing hundred peso bills, than to ride with me. No problem, because it's mad max countdown. I've got my war paint on. We're starting off in a blaze. We hit the highway in t-minus... once I get out of first gear. Oops. Car stalled. Mmm, okay. Got it. Oh, wait, release break. Yeah. Let's go. Woo! ….Okay, how do I turn that off?

It's day two of apartment hunting and I am 'preparado'. I take a deep breath and recall the important lessons from yesterday: how to holler at women from the window, how to take my shirt off every time we get out of the car, and how to avoid eye contact with the ridiculous red light vendors. In reality, who drives to work, stops at a red light, and thinks, “Golly, I just remembered I need a super-soaker, a child-sized floaty vest, and a kite before I get home”? Welcome to Buenos Aires. Credit card not accepted. No return policy – unless you can find the same street corner vendor. Then the policy is to toss it at him.

Overall, I'm more at ease with the city. I've come to enjoy the agreed disorderliness. Elements of the traffic are even making sense. When the light is about to turn green, both red and yellow light up. It's strange at first; but, as soon as I see the red/yellow light, I shift into first gear. It's genius - everyone's ready to squeal forward on green (pedestrians present or not). I've even accepted the fantasy lanes people create; mainly, because it's impossible for traffic to flow with taxis stopping every second to snag their fares. Hence, everyone hovering slightly to the side of the lane, ready to leap around stopped vehicles. Ordered chaos is the fail-safe of humanity. Oo, that's quotable. I hope it makes sense.

Now, it's time. Highway time. Jesús flicks his hand toward the road, which I've come to understand means keep going straight; or, look at that chica caliente – this results in plenty of confusion. I keep driving straight and see the cement highway crisscrossing the road ahead. The road splits, he flicks, I turn, we're in.

And... commence dramatic anti-climax. It's a highway. Not much going on. In fact, people are well behaved. The highway may even be the calmest part of the city. I honestly feel cheated. I want to star in Speed Racer. I want to bust out maneuvers that are too Fast as well as too Furious. I want Matrix-style back flips off tractor trailers! I'd even settle for the Love Bug. Alas, we coast along the highway for about five minutes and then exit into another “economical” area of the city to look for apartments. Oh well, as long as it doesn't turn into Hostel...

As for the apartment shopping, we double our productivity – that is, we see two places today instead of one. We make a supremely efficient team. Wilson scribbles five numbers off of rent signs, Jesús calls one, sets up a meeting we never go to, and I drive in circles. Hm... I think we unknowingly summed up the Argentine government.

As we're about to give up and go home, I give Jesús one more number. He calls and speaks for a minute. A meeting is set and we drive to the renter's office. If only it were that easy. We can't see the apartment because they're painting it. Another reason may be that Jesús looks like a street kid, he has tattoos, crooked teeth, and speaks the street slang; they don't think he can afford to rent the place. However, they show him photos, he says he likes it and tells them we''ll return the next day...

Does Jesús find an apartment?? Will Kevin buy more floaty vests?? Who is the mysterious man lurking in the shadows??

For answers to these questions, and more, tune in next time!

Next time!: Yes, No, Raúl (turns out, he has a hangover).

Chauffering Street Kids - Day 1

2010-01-07T16:45:00.001-05:00

I'd love to explain why I'm swerving through the chaotic tangle of Argentine traffic in the blazing sun with three former street kids and a five year-old in a white VW Gol. But, I'm not going to. I can only concentrate on this one thought right now, “Do not crash.”

My last encounter with driving a manual was in the calm, beach town of Maldonado, Uruguay, where I hit a parked car. Now, I'm in the midst of the lawless, corrupt cop, jumbled maze of Buenos Aires, speeding through red lights and straining to hear the directions mumbled in Argentine slang from Jesús over the blasting reggaeton music. Occasionally, Jesús points to an area - that's where he slept under the highway – that's where he used to beg for money – here's the fountain he and Wilson bathed in as kids. Wilson is Jesús' best friend, companion, and, behind his back, “slave”. They've been together through it all. It all, including watching friends die, go to jail, and waste away to drugs. Today, though, they're looking for an apartment. I'm the driver. And I don't have a clue where I am. Jesús points around – this is one of the really dangerous areas. Okay, now I know where I am. Thank you, Jesús.

As I shift the little white hatchback into third gear, Jesús points right, “Acá, acá!.” Here, here. I hesitate; he motions me to park in the street, smoky traffic barreling behind me. He hits the flashers. “Ya está.”. There we go. He hops out and runs in the renter's office. Wilson and William rest calmly in the back as massive buses attempt to swerve around me and my flashing car to pick up and drop off swarms of people. I'm in their spot. William's little girl, Rosia, smiles in the back seat with her crooked teeth and her thin curly hair bouncing on her forehead. “Do not crash.”

Jesús jumps in the car. He has a lead on a place on the outskirts of the city. He flicks the music back on, the CD is now on its third time around; I'm learning lyrics to songs I've never even heard before. I put the car in first gear, second gear - red light - neutral, coast, stop. “This isn't too hard,” I think. Which is an example of what to think when you want the universe to chuckle and toss you in the lion's den. Which, in Buenos Aires, is 9 de Julio, the fourteen-lane road stretching through the center of town.

Hundreds of cars cram themselves down this road every hour. On the map, the road is straight. On the map, the roads are also empty. Neither is true. 9 de Julio curves. It curves around statues. It curves around the giant obelisk. It curves around logical and reasonable roadway blueprints. Yet, each time the road curves, the cars refuse. The painted path ordained by the government becomes obsolete and a new pattern emerges, known only by drivers who have experienced the hell that is Buenos Aires traffic. Turn signals become Christmas ornaments, nothing more than decoration. Horns are like elbows, nudging people aside with an unfriendly “honk”. I've never felt so strange about feeling guilty about being the only person to stay in lane.

We curve in and out, narrowly avoiding a car that decides to turn left from the right lane. We watch as cars speed through red lights, or move through the intersection before the lights turn green. Meanwhile, Jesús is talking on the phone, only gesturing when I ask, “derecha o izquierda?” Left or right? I'm fifteen years old again, and the driving instructor couldn't care less if this is my first time driving and I have the power to cut off a giant tour bus, knock it into the pedestrian street, and manslaughter hundreds.

Clearly, I don't do that. Instead, I opt to swing onto a side-street, nearly avoiding denting the hood with pedestrians. A cop on the sidewalk watches. Luckily, he's on his cell phone and lets it slide. Then, Jesús motions me to park only a few car lengths from the cop, so he can check another renter's office. You mean, this spot right here? In front of the ambulance? With the no parking sign? With the cop in walking distance? Hold on, I remember the secret escape clause to violating any traffic ordinance. Flashers on. We're good Jesús. We're good.

After nearly three hours of perusing the city and risking many lives at every stoplight (most didn't know they we're risking their lives), and seeing only one apartment, we took a break so Jesús could stop and see his psychiatrist. I thought maybe I should join him. Something must be wrong with me to drive around dangerous parts of a corrupt city with three street kids, a five year old, and limited experience driving a manual transmission in a rental car I didn't pay for. I have to stop looking confident when people ask if I can do something. Sir, you look like you could land this space shuttle... Yes. Yes I can.

In case you missed it, we spent three hours, in the hottest part of the day, apartment shopping, and only saw one apartment. I love Argentina. I don't think I can explain what I do here. This is my job and my life right now, and I'm only in second gear. Tomorrow, I hit the highway.

New Years With No Reservations

2010-01-04T18:26:00.001-05:00

“Your new year will be as your new year began.”

As far as made up superstitions go, this one is my favorite. Mainly, because my new year started out with perfect luck in a foreign city. Based on this, my new year will be filled with jackpot winnings, perfect timing, and leprechaun friends (I'll even settle for really short people with an affinity for green clothes).

The story of my new years eve, however, began with the notorious “miscommunication between man and woman!”. When a woman says, “I'll make a choice about tonight,” she really means, “You better come up with something good, or else I will act like a total b-word the rest of the night.” (the 'B' stands for bureaucrat).

I'll admit, I should have verified with Arissa, Nathalie's friend from New York City, what our plans were. I said I could do some research; however, I assumed she was going to reserve a place at one of the clubs they had listed down, and she assumed that I would find something better. I did not, and she did not. Which left us empty handed at 8pm when we met up. The man at the front desk summed up our debacle, “All of Argentina is booked tonight.”

After thirty minutes of asking around, failing to connect to the internet, and next to no advice from the hotel, we found the one option was to go to the port and hope to find a place to eat, even though every restaurant claimed to be full, all fifty thousand taxis of Buenos Aires were 'ocupado', the walk to the port was at least fifty minutes away (without high heels), and not a safe place to walk through on the way back. It was looking as hopeless as my New Years resolution to stop singing “I feel pretty” when styling my hair.

Then something came over me. “Here's what's going to happen,” I said. “We're going to get lucky. We're going to find a taxi. Find a nice restaurant with music and dancing, and it's going to be excellent.” For some reason, I believed it – probably, that reason was a glass of Argentine red wine and a mini-bar beer. We set off.

After fifteen minutes of walking down the main road, with the girls in their high heels and each taxi we waved at flying by, the fumes of negativity from Arissa, Ms. New York, began to get a little stifling. Luckily, Nathalie kept her positive attitude – probably, due to the glass of wine she had with me. We finally saw a taxi with the red “Libre” light on. Nathalie ran over. The guy looked away and flicked the light off. I thought that might have made Arissa feel at home. All that was missing was the middle finger.

At about twenty minutes of walking, a taxi pulled over and let out a group of people, we sprinted up and dove in. The price to ride five minutes to the port was enough to feed his family for a week, but you can't be choosy with your luck.

The port and the restaurants were barely speckled with people at 9pm, which is early for dinner, but without a reservation, we were shooed away. Still, confident that we would get lucky, I asked the next restaurant. The hostess wrinkled her brow when I told her we had no 'reservaciones'. She said they were completely full... But... she would see what she could do – which is code for, “you look like you've got magic dancing feet tonight, I'll make it happen just for you.”

In an instant, a husky smiling man pat me on the shoulder and fired out in unintelligible, but jovial Spanish something about something, and a table, and a price, and joining a butchers club. I smiled and frowned as he lowered the price three times before I realized I was bargaining. Then, I was inside paying a set price for the three of us.

For $100, the three of us were given a three course meal, wine, endless champagne after midnight, live guitar music, dancing, singing, and a port side view of the fireworks as they shot off in three different places. The catch: we were three people at a table for two, right next to the enormous crackling speaker and a sleeping stray dog, with a sketchy looking DJ setting up, and I couldn't have had better luck. I even had some leftover luck to get us a taxi home without a hitch... except that the driver was probably drunk and flying through the streets at 3am. Still, lucky we didn't die.

Happy 2010.

Death-styles of the Rich and the Famous

2009-12-30T13:08:00.000-05:00

A group of us were finishing up lunch in the outdoor cafe, when Pat suggested that Nathalie, a french woman from Brazil visiting for the holidays, and I find the famous cemetery where Eva Peron is buried. I pointed directly behind her, “you mean, that cemetery?” Giant stone crosses and towers poked over the gray cement wall that quartered off several blocks of the city. Elaborate mausoleum roofs and the tips of statues peered over at us. We had had several glasses of wine, so walking amongst a few thousand dead bodies seemed like a terribly fantastic idea. So, we finished the bottle and wandered to the entrance.

For a couple hours, we took photo after photo, trying to capture the immense detail in the stone and marble carvings. The overcast sky above us glowed ominously as we wandered without direction, circling mammoth tombs, not quite sure which way we were heading, or if there was even a reason to head anywhere. Each direction held a piece of art made for the deceased, worthy of a museum – or at least, a photo from an awed tourist. You might even suspect that the dead are getting big headed with all the photo-shoots they're doing. I can see them posing in their graves now, “Yes, yes. Get my good side. Don't I have a lovely bone structure? Am I model skinny yet?”

Now, I didn't know this, but it should be common knowledge: a cemetery is a great place to charm a woman. Basically, you're starting at the bottom of expectations. The relationship can only go uphill from a cemetery... unless you're Stephen King. Yet, there's nothing like making a woman feel young and alive, than the juxtaposition of dreary tombstones, ancient death dates, and playing tag through a maze of sacred grounds. Plus, when she gets goosebumps, guess who takes the credit? That's right, you stud. High five a statue on your way out.

The main attractor to the cemetery is the famous, Eva Peron. I had read there was a great uproar about allowing Eva to be buried in this cemetery, because of her humble background. This cemetery is meant for the high class, the powerful, the important. It's the Bevery hills of death, or should I say, the Beverly Kills... or Maliboo... the Haunted Hampton's... mmm... no, no I shouldn't say. Anyway, being the savvy tourist that I am, I lead the way through the labrynth of death, and I could absolutely not find her. Nathlie, proved her french citizenship with the conclusion, “Eet juz wazen't meant to be.”

Now, to answer the question on everyone's mind, “Did you see any ghosts?”. I can only say that there were silent creatures that lurk the grounds, feeding off souls of the living – and they're super cute and furry. Cemetery cats. They seemed almost too comfortable in this setting, as if they were meant to be the watchers of those passed beyond this world. They round the corners and glide in and out of the small openings in the older tombs, making themselves at home.

One day, in the distant future, like one hundred years from now, I'll pass on. So, I've added one last tick to the list of things to do, become famous enough to be buried in the Recoleta Cemetary in Buenos Aires. Looks like I'm going to be marrying into the president's family soon. I'll send you a gold plated email when that happens.

First World Home, Third World Mosquitoes

2009-12-18T17:34:00.013-05:00

I don't want to frighten anyone who may one day visit Uruguay. But make a tiny note in the back of your head that when you're in bed, and at your most vulnerable, malicious creatures will attack, who have the gift of flight and near invisibility whose lives consist of sucking blood from your face. I know it sounds like the cast of Twilight, but it's much worse: South American mosquitoes.Um, which I assume aren't that different from North American mosquitoes - other than their speedo tan.

For the past two weeks I've been living with Pat and Bob in a beautiful home just a five minute walk from the ocean. I wake up early, walk on the beach, swim in the pool, maybe teach some Spanish to Pat, run errands, cook dinner, relax, and go to bed. However, some nights I am awoken in the middle of the night by a zzzz (translation: hey.)........ zzzzz (wake up.) ............. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz (If you don't swat at me, I will lay eggs in your ear). At that point, sporadic flailing of the arms commences, always missing the mosquitoes and only succeeding in raising my blood pressure. On those nights, I get a good fours hours of restful sleep, and a good 3 hours of Jedi training, blindly trying to smash the mini-vampires while half-awake.

One could be proud of surviving each nightly air strike of these insects, showing off their red bumps of courage. Or, one could just hose himself down with bug spray before going to bed and stop complaining. Maybe though, one doesn't like to smell like chemicals before going to bed. Well, one could shut up! Hey, one could stop and see that these mosquitoes are tearing us apart! One has a tear...

Okay, big deal. I'm in a foreign country, living by the beach, not paying a dime, and I'm complaining about mosquitoes? Yeah. Yeah, I am. Why? you ask. Good question, Mr. Jealousy, sit down and I'll tell you. Because habituation is the most powerful equalizer of society. No matter what one's situation, they will, for the most part, get used to it. Then what matters? Only differences in what one has versus what one wants. Before this, I was living in a basement that flooded on occasion, had a mildew smell, a very low ceiling, and stray cats out back, but I was just fine... mainly, because there were no mosquitoes malditos, del infierno!!! They make me go Ricky Ricardo, that's how I feel about it.

Honestly, I'm grateful this is the only thing I can pretend to complain about. So, wipe those tears, I'm adjusting well to my situation. I spray myself with bug spray before I go to bed, I sometimes put a light sheet over my head, and I surround myself with hungry frogs. Now, I just need to get habituated to the sound of croaking.

How to lose 20 pounds in just 30 waves!

2009-12-12T13:58:00.002-05:00

I challenge anyone to get fat while surfing. It's impossible. First, the boards don't have any cup holders for your 48oz slurpee, Mr. Tubbs. Second, just because “fat floats”, doesn't mean you'll be able to stand on the board any better. Third, every muscles in your body is used when surfing, especially the “thumbs up” muscles. I personally increased my “thumbs up” reps by six today. Oh, vocal chords get a workout too. Wooooooooooooooooooo!

Have you ever had surprise exercise? You're minding your own business when a bear wanders into the office, and bam! You're exercising your way down the stairs, across the street, and into a more realistic analogy? That's exactly what happened today. I had met a surf instructor last week while walking along the beach and got some information about the classes. Since, he's there everyday, I figured I would eventually walk by and set up a time to start. Today seemed fitting, Pat was sitting by the pool reading and we had no other agenda. I was sore from running on the beach yesterday, but I wanted to walk around for a bit.

I set a good pace down the main road, next to the beach, and in thirty five minutes I made it to the surf spot. The waves looked small and the sky was overcast, I thought, not typical surfing weather. I saw Juan and waved at him. He recognized me and invited me to start surfing. I logically explained that I had no bathing suit or water or energy. Plus, the waves looked too small. Yet, with matching eloquence and persuasion he said, “we have a wet suit, come on.” Curse his superior reasoning skills! I slipped the suit over my boxers and hit the water.

I've only surfed once before. I took a three day course in the Canary Islands a few years ago and learned the basics. From the first wave though, it all came back. I caught nearly each wave. Over and over. My Hawaiian roots must have helped too - although, I only learned to dance the hula. We did exercises of standing up and laying down, how to read a wave, how to turn and paddle, and how to whip my long blond hair around my face... well, that comes at the advanced stage.

This was the most exercise I've gotten in months. Every time I caught a wave, I had to paddle back through eight more. The lift off requires you to thrust your body up, and then stay squatted to keep balance. I even threw in some Tai-bo while wiping out. Over and over, I swam in and out. The instructor, Matias, kept pushing me into waves, “Go Kevin!” “I can't help but go when you keep pushing me!” They never teach useful phrases in Spanish class; for instance, exploding lungs.

There was only one other student, a girl a little younger than me from New York. She didn't seem like a typical new yorker when I talked to her. But she did drive like one. Or steer. Or whatever surfer lingo describes heading straight towards someones face with a solid edge of hard plastic, causing them to leap out of the way, matrix-style, with just a few centimeters to spare (I'm getting used the metric system.)

The lesson lasted an hour and a half, just enough time to remind me what muscles I haven't used in awhile. It was exhausting, exhilarating, and excelente. Tomorrow will be different story, when I wont be able to move, but that will give me more time to think about returning to the cool blue water once my legs function.

I Hit a Car Today (And Other Great Things About Uruguay)

2009-12-09T18:57:00.000-05:00

When visiting any new country, it's advisable to learn the customs, to fit in, not draw attention to oneself, and occasionally, to smash a car. Today, I was in Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay. Pat and Bob had some meetings, so I was left to wander the streets and learn the Uruguayan way. On my two hour walk, I encountered a few differences between the Americans of the north and the Americans of the south.

Lesson 1

What I saw: A woman pushing a parked car forward, presumably not her car, while a truck helped nudge it forward with its bumper, in order to turn a compact space into a jumbo jet parking zone.

What I learned: Uruguayan cars are not people, unlike their American counterparts. In fact, you better go cover their audio inputs, for this next bit.

Lesson put into action!: Later, Pat and I were dropping off Bob's broken computer in Maldonado, the local town, next to the touristy Punta del Este. I was driving the rental car (it's a stick shift – which I haven't driven in awhile. Oh, and the reverse is right next to first gear, not back and to the right.) As I attempted to reverse, to put more space between me and the parked car in front, the car lurched forward instead and gave the car in front of me a little, tiny, itsy-bitsy, love wallop. Luckily, there was only a small dent in our car, and no visible damage to the other car. Actually, there was already a lot of visible damage to the other car. It was super-Uruguayan, I think it even liked being bumped a little bit. Pat, however, suggested she drive back.

Lesson 2

What I saw: Stray cats and dogs roaming the streets of Montevideo like government workers; they're everywhere, they don't do much, and occasionally they bark at you.

What I learned: Uruguayan cats and dogs are not people either, unlike Mr. Mittens and Fido Reginald III of the USA, shacking up in the dog motel.

Lesson put into action!: I refrained from putting Versache sweater-vests on them, and held off on feeding them gourmet foods, better looking than the slop I ate through college. In reality, most of the strays looked perfectly content with their surroundings, as if their instincts were more in tune.

Bonus lesson!: In Montevideo, they have professional dog walkers, carrying up to ten or more dogs on leashes. Lesson being, even if dogs aren't strays, they still love being outside. Which is similar to people in that way... Oo, twist lesson.

Lesson 3

What I saw: My skin turn red.

What I learned: The sun is hot.

Lesson put into action!: Wait, let me explain.

Still learning: The sun is hot! Especially, in the southern hemisphere. I rarely burn in the sun, even without sunscreen. I have some weird disease where I look beach-ready all the time. It's a curse. Normally, I slowly roast to a golden brown; good enough for the thanksgiving centerpiece. However, my first day, I went two hours in the sun and came back with skin like a naughty boy's freshly smacked behind. Over the next two days, I put on sunscreen in the morning, yet continued to darken. At this rate, I'll be able to sneak into Namibia by January. Now, when I go out, I put on sunscreen at least three times a day. I'm actually avoiding these pristine blue days left and right so I don't have to worry about looking too different from my passport photo. In which case, I may have to stay here with the strays. All I ask is a care package of Pedigree.

Summary of Lessons

A^2 + B^2 = C^2. 'A' being my Uruguayan driving score, 'B' being how many animals I can “adopt” (carry in my arms), and C equals the liters of sunscreen I'll consume in a month. The answer is in the back of the book.

Country Road Prostitutes

2009-12-06T20:34:00.005-05:00

Of the varied events piled behind me in life, few involve prostitutes. Occasionally on my travels, I'll run into a ho or two. My friend Caleb and I have a running debate on whether we spent an entire day in Cairo with a prostitute without knowing it (we only paid for pizza). In the red light districts of Germany, I glimpsed the large display cases of women, most of them looking mainly bored. However, the strangest-environment-to-find-a-prostitute award now goes to Uruguay.

Pat, Bob, their gardener, and I were driving down a lazy road, as if on the way to Grandma's farm, to buy some plants for the tiny garden in front of Pat's tiny castle. Bright green trees lined the roadside, dirt trails lead onto long driveways, and light traffic coasted beside us. A beautiful setting for a Saturday afternoon. Pat piped in, “Oh, this is the road with all the prostitutes”. Before I absorbed exactly what she said, a saw a woman dressed in revealing South American Walmart clothes standing on a dirt road, as if waiting for the bright yellow school bus to take her to her first day at school. If she had been wearing a purse on her arm, instead of a box of cigarettes, I might have at least, optimistically, assumed she was waiting for a city bus.

I'm accustomed to strange cultures, but I couldn't locate an explanation in my brain for how this could make sense. Business sense, even. Low traffic area in dusty settings rarely equals bang for the buck. Excuse the hilarious and witty expression. I may not have been clear, so I will reiterate: the prostitute was standing on a dirt road in the middle of a rural area.

Pat explained, this is the road workers use to return home, so here the women “workers” wait . For some reason, this information did not help that she was leaning against a wood post, similar to those seen in Lincoln cabin photos.

The sins of man may one day be counted by an unknown source, but until then, I only judge on testable reason and logic. So I shun the prostitutes of Uruguay solely for their lack of aesthetic business sense and physiological persuasion. I reject their proposals of pleasure on the basis of the principle of practicality. To put it more elegantly: A dirt road??? Really??

What to do on a 15hr flight OR How to stop worrying and love the Mullet

2009-12-05T07:24:00.002-05:00

Buenos Aires is far away. Like, Bangladesh far.

Luckily, every good traveler knows how warp time around him and turn eighteen hours of travel into a blip in the American-space-time-Airlines continuum. From Baltimore to Buenos Aires, I elicited the magic of mental time travel. I people watched and people ignored. I zoned out, tuned out, and spaced out. I entertained myself through music, books, TV, and computer.. I reached zen in my non-stop barrage of thoughts, mashed together without coherent conclusions or solid structure, designed specifically to kill hours of time without even recognizing the countries passing below me beneath the hazy clouds. Before I could comprehend that I was flying past Cuba, Jamaica, the Panama Canal, Machu Pichu,the home of Cocaine and kidnapping, and the Amazon, I was there. I slept four hours out of the eighteen. Was the trip worth it to spend six months abroad with free travel, room, board, bread, and booze? Just barely.

We lugged our luggage to Bob's, Pat's brother's, apartment in Buenos Aires. After a decent nap, Pat and I explored a small part of the city. That night, we all ate in a fancy Spanish restaurant. In the morning we packed up and left for Uruguay. From my tiny taste of Argentina, I had the chance to experience the three T's of Buenos Aires: traffic, trees, women, and women. (And women).

T number one. Traffic. On our ride from the airport, the taxi driver was consistently several inches away from having too much fun. Broken windshields, bashed doors and bumpers, broken horns from extensive use: these are the trophies of good driving in Buenos Aires. The aggression I saw was worthy of a new york cab driver – sponsored by NASCAR - in a race to the death - held in downtown Bombay. It was wonderful. Any country that threatens my safety on what would otherwise be a common activity, scores high in my book. In Mexico, it's drinking the water; in Iran, it's having a good time; and in Buenos Aires, it's a nice cruise down the highway.

T two: Trees. Although the city is expansive and home to several million people, they've maintained a great deal of greenery all around. Trees line streets and pop up between buildings without permission. Pat and I walked to a park where the branches of an ancient tree were so immense, they could have been trees of their own. Argentinians seem to have a keen sense of plant preservation. Although, they may have planted these trees purely to deal with the fumes from all the traffic. So, let's not get too generous with our praise.

And finally, the last T stands for women. Total ten women. If I weren't scared that on the wedding day of my marriage to an Argentine girl, she would ram our limo into six cars, swerve through traffic at 120km/h and finally park in the street with oncoming traffic screeching behind us, then I would be married already. The mix of cultures and backgrounds in Argentina has created this bizarre race of beautiful women that float up and down the sidewalks, dressed to get away with murder. And if I have to be an accomplice to a night filled of tango treason, so be it.

I'm in Uruguay now. We only spent the day and night in Argentina, and we'll return right before Christmas. As for Uruguay, I've only been here a day or so, and already I'm sunburned from a two hour walk along the beach, I tried a type of bird that is similar to ostrich, meet a dude who teaches surfing, and drove several hours through a country I barely know anything about. So, it's been good. Uruguay is peaceful and green - and then it's beach town and bold. I can almost hear its call for humanity.

I'll update more later. I'm beginning Pat's Spanish lesson tomorrow. It's not all fun and games here. I occasionally have to do something productive. At least once a week. Chao.

Oh, I almost forgot. Mullets are still in fashion in the Latin world. They refuse to die out. Mullets may turn out to be the blue jeans of the Latin hairstyle. Except no one looks good in a pair of mullets.

Prologue

2009-11-02T10:12:00.002-05:00

Uruguay is located between Argentina and Brazil on the Atlantic side of South America. It also has an evil twin brother, Paraguay (he has a thin mustache), landlocked near Bolivia. Where is Bolivia? It was kidnapped by Columbia, so I don't know.

The important question is really this: Kevin, why in holy Chipotle are you going to Uruguay?

It's really very simple.

I am going to be a translator, bodyguard, assistant, Spanish tutor, guide, and exotic animal trainer.

Here are my credentials:

Translator - I have a degree in Spanish language and literature (dónde está el taco, Sr.Bond?)
Bodyguard - I have a black-belt in Taekwondo. Granted, I got it in 2001. But, to me, kicking someone in the face is like riding a bicycle while kicking someone in the face.
Assistant - I am organized, resourceful, and I have a touchscreen phone.
Spanish Tutor - Rosetta Stone was actually a stone I passed through my urethra. Haha, that's gross. And true*.
Guide - I've been to seventeen other countries and have only gotten lost once... per day.
Exotic animal trainer - Sorry, that's a misprint, I meant, exotic animal eater. Can't wait to taste sloth!

If you're wondering how a job like this is even possible, I have to ask you a serious religious question: Do you believe in Oprah?

According to the scriptures...er... scripts, she's a mystical being that convinces people to be generous and caring; to give freely of their time and money.
I know it sounds unbelievable, but a friend of my mom's happens to be one of those people, duped into being generous with others. She, Patricia, is retired, and after once owning three restaurants with her late husband, she's looking to live an endless summer between Uruguay and the Dominican Republic. Although she doesn't speak Spanish, she plans to travel the country, see the sites, and settle down. Her thoughts were, "who do I know who isn't doing anything, knows Spanish, loves to travel, and is named Kevin?" Naturally, I was her fourth choice.

A string of coincidences lead us to the same restaurant; she asked if I was interested, and it took me at least two seconds to agree to leave everything and live abroad for six months. I only hesitated for the first second, because I thought I had to burp.
Another coincidence is that the exact amount of money she can afford to pay me, is the exact amount I need to pay my bills each month. (Oh, I know. Oprah does indeed work in mysterious ways).

All of this happened about a month and a half ago. So I've been quickly preparing to leave the country; which is difficult - It takes a lot of planning to subtly brag to everyone I know**.

Also, since my Spanish has gotten a little rusty sitting in the corner next to my yoga mat and ab ripper, I've started a marathon of Spanish soap operas. You may ask, "porquuuuue Kevin?? Porquuuue??" Because, concerned reader, Spanish soap operas embody all that you'll ever need to know about the Spanish language. It has drama, action, humor, intransitive verbs, and the notorious subjunctive. Besides, how else am I going to learn to seduce a Uruguayan maid?

En conclusion, Oprah loves me. I'll be documenting my travels even though I'm not sure what I'll be doing, except teaching Pat Spanish, relaxing at the beach, traveling around a few countries, and maybe learning the Argentine tango. It sounds positively grueling, I know, but don't pity me. I have a strong spirit, a positive attitude, and all expenses paid. However, if your heart throbs profoundly for my desperate situation, send an American care package to my future address. (Don't you dare send that care package without freedom fries!)

Stay strong here at the home-front. Don't forget to feed my uncle Chet when I'm gone. Only open my mail if it says "Sweepstakes winner!" (Hey, with my luck, why not?). Oh, and remember, most importantly, don't ruin the economy while I'm gone! I still have to exchange my American dollars to Uruguayan... um... rupees.

Hasta mucho luego,
Kevin "El Suerte Suave" Guertler

*not true
**In your face, grandma!