I was methodically unpacking my suitcase, remembering how the patterned piles looked stacked on my bed back in the States as I reversed the action of puzzling them together, squeezing colorful cubes into a swelling suitcase. My madre came in to tell me, in what Spanish I could understand, that a pipe was broken and we had no hot water.
“Es bien,” I quickly confirmed, and made a grammatically incorrect joke about how it would help with sunburn and the hot weather. She smiled, our main form of communication at that point, and shrugged. I finished unpacking and left the house to explore the busy Buenos Aires. Upon returning, I found the broken pipe had made it so that even turning the dial towards the red indicator lowered the water pressure until it cut off right at the prime meridian of warm and cold, pleasing and freezing.
To clarify, I am not a sissy. I do not balk at the prospect of lacking human comforts, but when I got under that cold water, I got right back out. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t get used to it; there was no way.
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La Boca |
So, I did a very poor job of washing my hair in the sink. It was gross within minutes, probably grosser than it would have been if I hadn’t even washed it in the first place. Again, I went out into the Buenos Aires heat, every step into the sun bringing a new dew of sweat.
The hanging humidity and sweaty smog constantly cling to me. There has been one moment in which I would qualify as “cool” in Buenos Aires, and it was standing in the freezer section of a supermercado. My friend’s host mom told her that air conditioning is bad for you, and the city seems to have taken that motherly maxim to heart. So, thirsty and tired after what I later calculated as 11.2 miles of walking yesterday, another shower was a necessity. I returned home hoping that the water had been fixed, embarrassed of myself all the same
But first, I sat down to dinner with my madre and her friend and maid, Aida. I’d bought her flowers on the way home as a surprise present, which meant that I was greeted with many kisses on the cheek. They spoke in staccato Spanish, and my tired mind raced to keep up. What struck me was how quickly and openly they were including me in their life. Today, the security guard suffered from a back injury today that rendered him paralyzed. He is nineteen, younger than me. Their empathy was effusive as they told me of the tragedy, and they wanted me to understand, to participate in their conversation about the suddenness of sorrows, the unpredictability of life.
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my new boyfriend |
My madre lives alone in Buenos Aires and has traveled the world. She has a daughter and a brother in Norway so teaches herself another word, phrase, grammar rule of the language every day as she transitions from living in Oslo four months a year to living there full-time. She has a brother who is a priest in Rome. She bought me special gelato; I helped her carry a TV up our flights of stairs. Each day, I can understand her more, and we can share more about ourselves, our families, our lives. She nods patiently as I struggle with conjugations, and we manage some jokes. Before I left for dinner to face the dreaded shower, she suggested that I visit her sometime in Oslo, not as a student, but as a friend.
This time, I gave myself no choice. The water was cold, and the goosebumps didn’t go away, but it was time to include myself in Argentina the same way my madre and her friend included me at dinner. I couldn’t pick and choose the components of immersion to avoid the uncomfortable because I would return to the states in the same sorry state of speaking Spanish (and like super smelly). I would also miss out on connecting with some pretty cool women and a pretty cool culture.
To be honest, I’m still hoping there’s hot water tomorrow though.
Echo Foxtrot 
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