Caira Goes to Another City.

I recently got back from a trip to Argentina, and mid-air during the return flight, I decided firmly on three things, each pertaining to why I now preferred Buenos Aires to Santiago.
1.) The men are more attractive.
2.) Everything is cheaper.
3.) The meat tastes better.
And so it went that I chanted these three new facts, (as well as several others) over and over in my tired head for the duration of the flight and well into the next morning. Forget that I´d been there for just 72 hours—I knew in those three days that this city I´d discovered was infinitely better than the one I´d been residing in for over four months. I couldn´t wait to book another ticket to go back and further explore the place I knew would eventually become one in which i resided. I envisioned myself living comfortably in one of the apartment buildings I´d seen near our hostel, and laboring professionally in one of the swank offices I´d seen near our hostel, and swilling cocktails at one of the tango bars that I´d seen, um, near our hostel. And with that final glorious vision of myself dancing the night away with a handsome stranger floating above my head, I ran snack into the profound and disappointing realization that I knew absolutely nothing about Buenos Aires. I knew it was in Argentina. And I could definitely find it on a map. Oh and I knew how to a take a taxi from the hostel to just about anywhere near the hostel. With a sad sigh I hung my head and accepted this new sense of deflation Of course I´d noticed the people were better looking. There were sixteen million of them to choose from, nearly triple the options available here in ol´Santiago. Buenos Aires trumphs through ratios alone. And it´s not like I kept a tally of all the ones I didn´t find enticing, (though there were plenty.) Then of course there were the lower prices I found so delightful, but without a moment´s attention as to how those prices originated (hello currency collapse!) and where they would be heading in the future. I just wanted to live there because it was exciting and different and it meant I didn´t have to come back and be a semi-adult in a city that was already familiar to me. A city that had seen me cry and sweat and grasp for understanding. A city where I had to sleep and work and budget my finances and ask for directions. A city, essentially, that I´d shed of its original plastic wrapping to get a real sense of it beneath the shiny facade of the box it came in. Now, instead of An Adventure in South America!, I was living in A Real Experience. One that wasn´t always particularly forgiving or kind, but one I´d legitimately sunk my teeth into and found satisfying pleasure in its hybrid of sweet and bitter tastes. I hadn´t even ridden the metro in Buenos Aires! We opted for cabs the whole weekend because ¨hey, we were on vacation.¨

So, here I am, stable and situated and, as of present, sans an Argentinian plane ticket. I´m sure I´ll go back, but the urgency to escape has lessened considerably in light of my exposed delusions—(well, in light of most of them. The meat is still better regardless of how close it was to my hostel.)

The Wine Spritzer of Fluency

A guy walks into a bar carrying a shot-glass in one hand and a pigeon in the other. ¨What´ll it be? ¨ says the bartender. ¨English, straight up.¨ The bartender fills his glass; three fingers, no ice. Two minutes later, another guy walks in, holding just an empty cup.

¨And what are you having, Sir?¨

The Second Guy´s been practicing so he responds proudly. ¨Why, yes, I´ll have just a little bit of English with a twist. On the rocks. Thank you.¨

This perplexes the Bartender and he looks to the First Guy for help. ¨Oh here, allow me,¨ he says, and releases the pigeon which immediately relieves itself into the glass.

The Second Guy is horrified and slams his drink down on the bar. ¨What kind of nonsense is this? I said I wanted SOME English! What do I have now, other than a load of useless sh*t?¨

The Bartender shrugs. ¨Same difference.¨

Now let´s pretend that instead of English, the two gentleman in question were in want of Spanish. And it wasn´t a bar they were visiting so much as it was an actual country. And now let´s freely admit that I´m representing Hombre Numero Dos and the bar is Chile. Where am I going with this? To the end of disillusionment, that´s where.

I´d like to believe that anytime someone goes to a new country/city/airport, he/she aims to develop a certain kind of rapport with the new surroundings. So if I arrived in Chile in February, then Santiago and I have been in a relationship for roughly four months. The honeymoon is over. And I fear it may have something to do with our lack of successful communication. What began as a giddy foray into the unknown is now a day-to-day reality awash in uncertainty and confusion.

We all had a friend or two in college who proclaimed her boyfriend was THE one—heck, we may have even been that person ourselves—and then that friend dated her significant other for two years and realized that what were cutesy flaws in the beginning of the relationship were more like impassable craters by the end. Sure, I speak a little, understand a little more, can read well on a good day. But there´s nothing suave about my delivery of double R´s or soft pronunciation of D´s. The sheepish face that goes with my ¨oh i just got here¨ bit has lost it´s touch. Apparently the explanation stales when used 90 days after its origination.

So now what? If Santiago itself were a real person, it´d be about that time to have The Talk—as in the one where it decides its fed up with my inability to express emotions or get into anything deep. Which can only mean that it must be time for me to beg for forgivness, swear I´ll do my best to change and promise all the stuff I (haven´t) said isn´t what I meant.