so you want to be an illegal immigrant?

Here's a little ditty I wrote for all those kids who are coming to Buenos Aires long term. Not that it won't make for fascinating reading for the rest of you...

I have a confession to make: I am an illegal immigrant. Currently, I have no valid visa, let alone a work visa, and I don't pay any income tax to Argentina as I am working en negro (under the table). But I wasn't always such a law-breaking individual. Back in Germany, I had two tourist visas and two student visas in five months. Not a day passed that the German government didn't allow me to be there and I knew my local immigration office intimately. In Israel, I got a 90 day tourist visa on arrival, and I later got a 12 month student visa when I visited home after September 11^th. I didn't earn money in either of those two countries, so I didn't need to worry about paying taxes. Which brings us to the million peso question: why have I turned into such a delinquent? Well, in Argentina, I'm just trying to fit in, where as in those other countries, they probably would have deported me back home. Since everyone likes a story, let me tell you how I got to this illicit place in my life...

Believe it or not, I did do some research before arriving to Argentina. This time last year, I was combing through websites, blogs and message boards to find immigration information about Argentina. Now, from my previous travels, I expected to need a work visa, and I thought that I might even need to pay taxes on any income earned. Both of those notions were quickly shattered. I learned that the great majority of English teachers in Argentina don't bother to get anything more than a tourist visa, which can be "renewed" by taking a day trip to Colonia, across the river in Uruguay. Many ex-pats griped on their blogs about having to make the trip and having nothing to do over there in Colonia, but those are just the sort of sour travelers that I like to prove wrong. I can't think of a place that I've been to that I didn't enjoy in one way or another...even Kansas. Wait, make that especially Kansas.

On the tax question, I couldn't find anyone that said the government demanded taxes, so that expectation was out the window as well. Armed with this information, I boarded a plane in mid October to Buenos Aires on a six-month ticket, and didn't think much of the matter. Upon arrival, I got a 90 day tourist visa and went about my merry way...until 89 days later. It was the last day of my visa, and I didn't feel like going to Uruguay. I had heard rumors that there were other ways around the matter, so I jumped on a computer and started googling away.

I found out that (in theory) you can go to the Immigration Office here in town (Dirección Nacional de Migraciones) and get your visa extended for another 90 days. Of course, cost was an issue. At 100 pesos, and with the prospect of losing an entire morning at the mercy of Argentine bureaucracy, I quickly scrapped that option. (Incidentally, I don't know a single soul who's gone this route.)

Feeling dejected, I went back to the Buquebus (ferry company) website to recheck the details. I could cross over to Uruguay on a slow, three hour ferry at 9:00 a.m. and return on another slow, three hour ferry at 6:45 p.m. for a total of 70 pesos. (I'll leave it to you to insert your own Gilligan's Island jokes here.) If I didn't want to lose a whole day, I could take a one hour hydrofoil at a variety of times for 100 pesos.

None of this sounded appealing at the time. I had more or less resigned myself to waking up early and going the Buquebus route when I ran into my buddy Jim. Jim told me that he had overstayed his visa by several months. I asked him if he was afraid of the consequences. He replied that the penalty he would face was 50 pesos.

Okay, for those of you whose strong point isn't math...that's 100 pesos for the visa extension, 70 to 100 pesos for a trip to Uruguay (plus lunch and expenses), or 50 pesos for doing nothing. Before you could say "porqueria", I had decided to do nothing. Of course, those of you who know me will not be surprised to learn that I was gripped by an amazing sense of guilt and shame my first illegal day, and I dragged my butt down to the Buquebus terminal to check out Colonia. When I got to Argentine Immigration control on the Argentine side of the river, the officer looked at me sideways, asked me if I knew that my visa had expired, and charged me 50 pesos. I was on my way to legal status once again.

On a side note, immigration at the Buquebus terminals is strange. On the Argentine side, you get checked out of Argentina by an Argentine officer, then at the same desk, an Uruguayan officer stamps you in to Uruguay. I can't remember how it works on the Uruguayan side, but I vaguely recall getting stamped into Argentina before getting on the boat and getting back over to Argentina. I think this is one of the few efficient protocols I've seen since moving down here to South America.

Anyway, on to Colonia...it wasn't as bad as the ex-pats make it out to be. Sure they've spent a lot more time there than most foreigners who visit, but Colonia is quite charming. It's a nice break from life in the city, wandering around the old colonial buildings by the river. I ate a tasty lunch of salmon and rice at a restaurant overlooking the water, and then I checked out the old fort and some of the artisan shops. Some of you may remember receiving an email from me about my Buquebus fiasco. This post is getting pretty long as it is, so I'm going to skip that little vignette for now with the gentle admonition to Colonia-bound travelers to check the time when they get to Uruguay. Anyway, the point of my story is that I was let back into Argentina without incident.

Three months later, the visa question wasn't even an issue. I popped back home to California for a quick trip around Easter time, but that didn't mean that I wasn't nervous upon my return to Buenos Aires. I flashed back to my training at the travel agency where my instructor drilled into me the policy that I was not to send anyone on a one way ticket to a country where they didn't hold residency or weren't a citizen. I heard horror stories of airlines not letting these passengers board the plane, and other tales of one way travelers being turned away at immigration once they landed. So there I was, the former travel agent about to break her own policy. The airline consolidator that sold me my one-way ticket did so without incident, but I was still nervous. Just to play it safe, before I left Buenos Aires, I bought a one way Buquebus ticket to Colonia. I knew that sometimes travelers got around the international one way rule by showing proof of ongoing travel. That still didn't help my anxiety much.

As I boarded my flight to Buenos Aires, the reality of what I was doing dawned on me. I was about to fly one way to a country where I had already overstayed a visa. I had absolutely no right to enter Argentina, and yet there I was. Was I nuts? Maybe. You could also label me an arrogant American. That's fine. Say whatever. All I knew at that point was that I needed to control my nervousness because it certainly wouldn't help my case once I got to immigration in Argentina. Taking a deep breath, I walked up to a female immigration officer about my age and handed over my passport. She flipped through it without pausing to check a single page before I heard *stamp stamp* *stamp stamp* "Bienvenidos." That was it. I was welcome. There were no hairy eyeballs, no condescending voices, and most importantly, there was no deportation.

To be honest, I lost a lot of respect for the Argentine government in that moment. They had just made it blindingly clear that I could do what I wanted in terms of my visa status. I remembered some of my students who have complained that in many circumstances, there are no consequences for deviant behavior here. This most often comes up in discussions about crime and the revolving door justice of Buenos Aires, but this laissez-faire attitude goes quite a bit deeper than that. Many Argentines also work partially en negro. They only claim a small percentage of their wages for income taxes. Why? Because as I hear it, there's no equivalent of the IRS breathing down their necks and auditing every decimal point.

One of my students, who used to work pretty high up in the government here told me that he admires the U.S. because we are able to keep law and order. Because people actually follow the rules up there. Of course, it's not as simple as he makes it out to be, but he's not too far from the truth. Through penalties, punishments, and even incentives, the U.S. government keeps most people in line. Think about it this way: Do you stop at a red light even if there are no other cars on the road? I do. I know that the penalty for running a red light is expensive, and there might be a camera somewhere that I don't see. Next thing I know, there might be a $321 citation in my mailbox. Nothing like that happens in Buenos Aires though. That's why it feels like there are no rules here. So, given that I have yet to see any serious consequences for not having a valid visa here, is it any surprise that I've now overstayed my welcome by more than a month? Is it any shock that I have friends who have overstayed their visas by more than eight months?

Now, I do associate with foreigners who are a bit more law abiding than I am. Some of my friends go to Colonia every three months like clockwork. Of course, most of them are staying here long term and might someday want to work towards getting their citizenship or opening up a business. In other words, most of my upstanding friends have an incentive to keep their immigration record clean...not that they're paying any income tax though. I don't have one foreign friend that is working here completely legally, one way or the other.

Since I do want to respect the Argentine system, when the weather warms up a bit more, I am planning to go back over to Colonia. Like I said, the place isn't half bad, and no, this has nothing to do with those leftover Uruguayan pesos that I'd like to spend rather than exchange. I love Colonia in the springtime.

* For those of you who care to know...legally you don't have to pay taxes to the U.S. government on any income earned abroad up to $7,000. Sadly, I'm in no danger of being in trouble with the IRS. So far I've earned about $3,700 in six months of teaching here, and yes, I've been living off of that.

elevator karma

A summer re-run, because some of you didn't get this email six months ago...

When Americans first get settled into Buenos Aires, one of the first things they fall in love with is all the antique manual sliding-door elevators all over the city. Now, I'm not using "antique" here as a euphemism for junky out-dated machines that don't work properly. No, most of these old elevators, with their wrought iron cages and occasional wood paneling, are inspected and serviced on a monthly basis. The only problems I've ever encountered with them have been my own user error, like forgetting to close the door all the way, which sets off a buzzer alarm. The older model elevators are so common here that I had only used one modern elevator in this city, that is, until I started teaching English. As I might have mentioned before, most of my students are business people, and most of my classes take place in their offices. This means that I not only have to know the address of the office beforehand, but once I get to a new building, I have to contend with security desks and finding my way to the right floor and suite. Most of my students work in banks or brokerage firms, so the facilities at the office buildings tend to be top notch, and all of them come equipped with fully automated elevators. Now, with all I have to worry about with finding an office for the first time, I never guessed that I had elevator karma, so I certainly never knew that my elevator karma was bad.

It all started with my first class at the Banco Central. With more than 2500 employees under its roof, the fact that I had a little trouble finding my way around feels a bit like an understatement. My institute furnished me with the address, floor, and suite number of my student, but other than an instruction to use the "golden elevators", I knew nothing about the place. Upon arriving at the building, I looked up at the marble columns and statues of the facade and thanked the fashion gods that I had put on my best clothes that morning. After climbing the outside steps, I found myself in an entry room. A security guard pointed me through the golden revolving doors into the reception, a room roughly the size of my parents' first house. I gave my name, my student's name, and my passport number to the young lady at the marble front desk (which looked more like an open teller's counter than a receptionist's desk), and in return, I received a visitor's ID, an electronic security pass card, and a receipt. As I followed the receptionist's directions to the elevators, I studied my receipt. It stated my name, my business (profesora de inglés), my passport number, the time I arrived, and my student's name. I couldn't help but think that if I didn't like my student then maybe I could go back to the reception and exchange him for a nicer model.

Looking up from my proof of purchase, I was standing in front of a metal detector. I handed my bag to a security guard and walked through, only to have my briefcase-sized tote returned to me unsearched. I guess if I get anywhere near the vault I'll just exchange my lesson plans for bundles of cash and then freely saunter back through the front entrance. After the metal detectors, I passed through an electronic turnstile with my security pass card and proceeded to get hopelessly lost in the belly of the beast. Finally, a janitor pointed me in the right direction, and I boarded an elevator with a guy who was already waiting. He punched 2, I punched 6, and we were on our way. I reverted to my American ways once inside the lift by flipping through my day planner and avoiding eye contact with my fellow passenger. I snapped back to reality when we reached the second floor. The man said, "Chau!" as he slipped through the closing door, and I smacked myself on the forehead for forgetting that lots of Argentines like to make small talk on elevators. Feeling stupid, I punched the button for the sixth floor again and the door almost closed before opening again. I stuck my head out into the hallway to see if someone was trying to get on, only to find no one standing there. I punched the button again, the door rolled almost shut and then re-opened. I pushed and held my floor button this time, but my situation remained unchanged. This elevator was going nowhere. I stepped out to see if I could find some stairs just as a cleaning lady jumped into my elevator. The doors closed for her without a problem, and I wondered if even the elevator was messing with me because I'm a foreigner. Eventually, I made my way to the sixth floor by a different lift and encountered no further snafus. On a side note, when I finished my class, my student's secretary signed my receipt and wrote the current time down at the bottom. I wonder if that's going to hamper my consumer rights to exchange my student or to help myself to a stack of pesos on my way out.

The elevator incident at the Banco Central should have registered as a warning to me that my luck with elevators had shifted to the dark side, but I'm an optimistic skeptic when it comes to these things. The next day, I had my first class at Vitol Argentina, a commodities broker with offices in Puerto Madero. The building complex is pretty contemporary with a brick facade and elevators so modern, there are no buttons, only touch sensors. For some reason, Vitol was the first company on my list that listed an address but no floor number. As the Puerto Madero complex only has three floors of offices, I assumed I could find my way easy enough. I checked in at the security desk and, ignoring the giant floor directory behind the guard, I inquired which floor Vitol was located on. The guard told me to go to the first floor, and I thanked her and waited for an elevator. (Note: In many countries, you enter a building on the ground floor, and the first floor is located on the story above.) I made my way inside the first of three elevators and hit the first floor touch sensor. However, upon exiting the elevator, it was clear that I had the wrong floor. I thought that I might need to head for the second floor, so I hit the "up" touch sensor and waited for my carriage. The middle elevator came to my rescue, and I punched the number two. The elevator rose up one floor, and I finished fixing my hair in the mirror as I waited for the doors to open. But they didn't. I looked at the digital read out, and it stated that I was indeed at the second floor, but with no way to get out onto the second floor. It's funny how the realization that you are stuck in an elevator can take so long to grasp, but it did finally dawn on me that I should call for help. Right. Call for help. I looked up at the telephone above the touch sensors and then over to the instructions on what to do if you need assistance. Of course, since I'm in Argentina, the instructions were in Spanish. I could understand what I had to do easily enough: pick up the receiver, dial 0, and tell the operator that I'm in elevator number 2. What I couldn't figure out was how to explain that I was stuck in an elevator in Spanish. After a moment's panic, I settled on saying, "El ascensor se paró." (The elevator stopped.) Here's how the conversation went with my elevator tech...

Tech: Hola? (Hello?)
Me: Hola. Estoy en el ascensor numero dos y el ascensor se paró. (Hello. I'm in elevator number two and the elevator stopped.)
Tech: Se paró? (It stopped?)
Me: Sí, se paró. (Yes, it stopped.)
Tech: Bueno. Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah. (Alright. Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah.)
[Long pause]

Tech: Gracias, eh? (Thanks, eh?)
Me: Uhhhh, gra- (Uhhhh, tha-)
[Line cuts out]

I hung up, slid to the floor and hoped that somewhere in all those blahblahblahs there was a promise to get me moving again. Seventeen minutes later, the phone rang. If my first call for help was bad, then this one was worse. I lunged for the receiver only to receive a string of incomprehensible Spanish that I had to admit to not understanding three times before the guy on the other end stopped and asked me who he was speaking to. I told him that I was an English teacher for Vitol, and a miracle occurred. My elevator tech actually started talking to me as if Spanish wasn't my first language. We then established that the doors wouldn't open, and I guessed he said he'd see what he could do. Four minutes later, the light for the parking garage light up. Half a minute after that, the elevator started moving down. Then my second miracle of the day took place, the doors actually opened! Just as I was stepping out to freedom, the phone rang again, and again I caught a rush of Spanish in my ear that I couldn't understand. I interrupted the tech and told him that the doors had opened...

Tech: Las puertas se abren en el segundo piso? (The doors opened on the second floor?)
Me: No. Estoy en el garaje. (No, I'm in the garage.)
Tech: En el qué? (In the what?)
Me: Estoy en el garaje. (I'm in the garage.)
Tech: Ah! Estás en el garage. (Ah! You're in the garage.)
[Right, silly me for not knowing I needed to use an English word to be understood.]

I thanked the guy profusely, and let the evil middle elevator take off for a different floor. There was no way I was getting back in that one! But what do they say about your plans being evidence of God's sense of humor? The other elevators wouldn't come to my rescue. No matter how many times I tried or how long I waited to push the "up" sensor, the evil middle elevator always came. I looked around hoping to find a staircase. I was willing to do anything rather than tempt fate (and the evil second elevator), even if it meant hiking up four flights of stairs in high heels, but no such luck. I was in a room with three elevators and a glass door looking out to "el garage" that you needed a security pass card to open. So, wishing myself luck, I boarded the second elevator and hit the ground floor, realizing that I still had no idea where the Vitol office was located. I arrived in one piece and asked the security guard which floor I needed to go to. She asked me which company I was headed to again, and as I started to answer, "Vit-", I remembered that theres no "v" sound in Argentine Spanish. "Bitol" I replied. "Ah, Bitol! I thought you said something else!" she chirped in Spanish. "Second floor," she told me. "Second floor, thanks." I caught elevator number one and besides arriving to my class 20 minutes late, everything seemed to be fine. I apologized profusely to my student once I had the pleasure of entering the Vitol office, and explained that I got stuck in the elevator.

Student: Did you take the one closest to our office?
Me: No, I took the middle one.
Student: The middle one? Oh, because the one close to us usually doesn't work. In fact, it is very rare that all three elevators work here. Did the inside doors open but not the outside ones? You get to see all the gears that way!

The English teacher I inherited this student from never mentioned the finicky Vitol elevators. Thanks a lot! I think this episode only cements my love for antique elevators all the more...

porteño goodfellas

I often hear people declare and read news stories that claim Buenos Aires to be the Prague of the 21st century. While many Americans are coming here long term to write, create art, and otherwise try to earn a living, I'd like to explain one crucial difference between the Prague of the 1990's and the Buenos Aires of the Naughts.

A couple of weeks ago, I made a new friend from the States. His name's Tyler, and he contacted me after reading my blog as he had plans for a short trip to Buenos Aires. After a few exchanges of emails, I could tell Tyler was the type of traveler whose mind I love to pick, so we agreed to meet for coffee one afternoon. When Tyler walked through the door of the café, one of the first things I noticed about him was the rather large and expensive-looking camera slung over his shoulder. I couldn't help but think, "God, I hope he doesn't get mugged." He took a seat at my table and hung his camera off the back of his chair as we made our introductions. A few moments later, the waiter who came over to take our order grabbed Tyler's camera strap and warned him to keep an eye on his equipment. Slightly embarrassed, Tyler placed his camera on the table in front of him, and I tried to diffuse the situation by explaining that many waiters in this city try to look out for foreigners like this. To which Tyler replied, "Is crime really that bad here?" Well, at least the locals believe it is. I'll put it to you this way, one third of all of the foreigners I know here have been robbed, and my American boss Tony says 100% of his Argentine friends have been robbed too.

Now, I don't mean to discourage people from coming here. If you decide to vacation in Buenos Aires, the chances of you getting mugged are not that great granted that you use some basic street smarts. However, if you're looking to stay here longer, the risk is higher because there's a feeling in the city that sooner or later it happens to everybody. So I want to share with you three stories of some of my friends' experiences with crime in Buenos Aires and the lessons they learned.

Lesson #1: Be wary of certain barrios.
My first friend to be mugged was my German friend Sebastian. Sebastian was preparing for a month long trip to Peru to see his then girlfriend so he was trying to cram in lots of sightseeing before leaving. Late one afternoon, he went alone to the neighborhood of La Boca, the tourist magnet home of the tango with all the pretty colored buildings. As Sebastian was absorbing the sights and sounds, he wandered down a side street off the main drag, El Caminito. Before he knew it, he was cornered by two men, one with a knife and the other with a rock. They nervously demanded his wallet. As Sebastian handed it over, he realized that his Visa card, which he needed for his e-ticket to Peru, was inside. He immediately began to burst into tears begging the men to give him back his wallet for just a second because the only picture he had of his girlfriend was inside. The men relented and Sebastian deftly palmed his Visa card behind his novia's picture. The men took back the wallet and took off. All in all, Sebastian was lucky. The men made off with only 50 pesos as Sebastian's camera and the rest of his money were hidden from sight. Also, Sebastian's quick thinking, acting skills, and most importantly, his Spanish abilities kept him from losing much more. Of course, it isn't all that bright to hang out alone in La Boca at sunset either.

Lesson #2: Pay attention to your surroundings.
My friend Kristen and her boyfriend were living in an apartment in Palermo, a decently nice and pretty chic neighborhood, trying to survive as English teachers. The only downside to their apartment building was that when I buzzed their apartment, someone would have to physically come downstairs to let me in. Of course, since I don't look like much of a threat, 8 times out of 10 one of their neighbors would let me in and I would show up at their apartment boasting of my ninja skills. Late one day, Kristen was walking home, lost in her thoughts of returning to the States in a few short weeks. She finally arrived at her building and unlocked the front door, letting a young man in behind her. He followed her into the tiny four person elevator, whipped out a gun, and demanded all her money. She opened her wallet and promptly handed him 40 pesos (although she had another 100 pesos tucked away out of sight). The mugger then spied her cell phone and demanded that too. She took a second look at his gun, and, doubting its authenticity, refused to give up her cell. Kristen then proceeded to scold the guy telling him that he was "a bad, bad man" in Spanish. The elevator stopped and she ran to her apartment and locked herself inside. Kristen was lucky, she was unharmed and she got away with her phone and her hidden 100 pesos. Of course, I don't advocate standing up to a mugger. You can probably call him a bad, bad man though.

Lesson #3: Never, ever, ever invite people you don't know into your home.
This last story is about an American who was not so lucky...we'll call him Matt to protect whatever innocence he still has left. Matt is a teacher at one of my institutes who recently arrived to Buenos Aires. He's been living in his own apartment near Abasto. Outside his building, there's always a group of local guys hanging out. One evening, as Matt arrived home, high off of teaching a good class, he started talking to some of the dudes outside. Two of them spoke English, and Matt was in such a good mood, he invited them up to his apartment to hang out. Once inside, the guys turned on him, beating the crap out of him and knocking him out cold. When Matt came to, the guys were still there, trashing the place and robbing him blind. One of them told Matt in English, "Stay on the floor!" Matt replied in Spanish, "I'm not going to fight." The others were busy breaking his table and pouring milk all over the floor. The last thing he saw was one of the guys putting on Matt's coat which had $1000 stashed in a pocket. The guy then took Matt's keys and locked him inside (the locks here have keyholes on both sides). The first time I met Matt was about a week after the attack. He had two black eyes and contusions all over his face, not to mention stitches in the side of his mouth. He told me how the police had to break down his door to get in and his landlady was asking for money for the damages. All in all, he lost $1000, his passport, and his custom bass guitar, among other things. Strangely, these guys didn't have the presence of mind to take his wallet out of his pocket too. Matt explained to me that the most frustrating part of his experience started when he went to the bank to pick up money from a wire transfer. The bank said that they needed to see his passport in order to turn over the money. Having lost his passport, Matt went to the U.S. Embassy where he was told that they needed money in order to issue him a new passport. On a more positive note, Matt had no hospital bills since all the medical treatment he received at his local public hospital was free of charge. Last I heard, Matt is sticking it out in Buenos Aires and he's looking for a new apartment in a nicer neighborhood due to the mala onda (bad vibes) of his apartment in Abasto. What a trooper!

Now I know that there are some of you out there who are rolling your eyes and saying, "Gee, thanks for the advice, but I live in (INSERT NAME OF MAJOR BIG BAD CITY HERE) and I've got plenty of street smarts, thank you very much." Fine, then I say to you as a Los Angeleano (home of the original freeway shooting) that the major difference here is that you're a foreigner. I don't care if you hire Henry Higgins himself, 95% of you will never sounds like a porteño. On top of that, a large number of you will sound like total gringos (a word they don't use here, by the way). If someone suspects that you're a foreigner, this can lead to the assumption that you have something worth stealing. That means that you are perceived as a juicier target here than in the "bad" neighborhoods at home. The other thing that I'd like to bring up is that while I'm known to "slum it" in L.A., I don't hang out on Skid Row. Similarly, there are some neighborhoods of Buenos Aires that should be generally avoided.

Either way, here's a list of hints to help keep you safe...

* Places to be wary of (especially after dark): Constitución, La Boca, parts of San Telmo, southern parts of Almagro, and the corner of Lavalle and 9 de Julio.
* Don't carry around expensive electronics such as cameras, laptops and iPods, or keep them out of sight as much as possible...and leave your Rolex at home.
* Pay attention to the people around you (this is how I've kept kids from stealing my bag on at least two occasions).
* Keep an eye, or better yet, a firm grip on your bags. Don't put them on the floor or hang them off the back of your chair.
* Be wary of people who approach you in the street. I so hate to say this because the majority of people here are wonderful, but you have to ask yourself, "Why did this guy decide to walk up and talk to me?" Many times they are confirming that you're a foreigner (by your accent) and possibly trying to distract you or gain your trust.
* Always ride in radio taxis (this is true for all of Latin America). If you're here for a week or more, try to find a cab company you like and use it as much as possible. There are robberies that are associated with taxi cabs.
* Don't carry or flash around large amounts of cash.
* Be careful if you stand up to your attacker. There have been numerous violent home invasions committed here by folks high on paco (which I believe is like crack, but I'm having a hard time confirming that information).
* Sadly, watch out for kids snatching bags. There are virtually no consequences for minors who commit crimes, so many times older thieves put together a band of kids to do the real stealing.
* Watch out for police bribes. Sadly, the police don't seem to help too much in most situations here.
* In case you need to make an insurance claim, photograph your valuables and write down the serial numbers of electronics. You probably won't be able to recover your stuff, but you never know, and you might get compensated for it all back home.

Back to my evening with Tyler...after coffee, I showed him around the city center. We walked down to Puerto Madero and back through Recoleta. During all of our walking and talking, no less than three strangers stopped Tyler and told him to watch out for his camera, both in Spanish and in English. It became a running joke. Like I said, the majority of people here are warm and happy to help out foreigners. It's just the criminal minority that you have to look out for. So be safe, traveling mercies, and come to Buenos Aires. Now that you know all this, you can probably avoid most street crime. Not to mention, your tourist dollars will be much appreciated here!

In case you want to know, here's the laundry list of crime in the city, both perpetrated against my friends and others... Linnea, a Swedish girl who lives here on and off, was mugged in Constitution Park. Jazemin, an American girl, wasn't paying attention when she got off her bus in Recoleta. Two guys grabbed her and then grabbed her bag and fled. Brendan, an American guy, was sitting in a café when some guy came up and started talking to him. That distracted him long enough for someone else to take his bag, which was on the floor and housed his iPod and digital camera among other things. Yasi, an American girl, was walking in La Boca with a guy friend in the middle of the day when she saw a group of men grab a woman and try to drag her down an alleyway as a crowd watched in horror. Like many of us in that same situation, Yasi didn't know what to do. A story in the Travel section of the New York Times said that a reporter saw a man walk up to a Japanese tourist and snatch her bag in broad daylight on a posh street in Recoleta full of high-end shops. I can only guess that street was the seemingly safe Avenida Las Heras. Now be safe and get out there and buy a plane ticket!

please, please read me

Okay y'all, I'm not normally the type of girl who thrusts her political opinions on other folks, but I recently got wind of some disturbing news out of Washington. I'm going to try my best to explain what's going on here, but to get the full story, you really need to take just five minutes of your time and read the full story from the source, the APCB. This will only take a second. Read my rant and then click on the link below. I'll be glad you did.

So I know that there are a lot of folks out there criticizing President Bush for the war and the economy and Hurricane Katrina and whatnot, but this is something that really caught my attention. It seems that the White House working to get final say over our tax dollars. See, you know how Congress is the one that approves the federal budget each year, while the White House only proposes a suggested budget? Well, if this law is passed then the President will have complete control over the budget. That means any program that the White House wants will get funding, and any program that it opposes will disappear without any checks and balances, whatsoever. It seems that Bush is trying to get this new legislation passed by using fear tactics on various Congressmen. Once the right senators are convinced to support it, everyone else on Capitol Hill will be too scared to vote against it. Every senator and representative will know that a vote against the bill will mean a major cut in federal funding for the folks back home. This is a brazen breach of the Constitution's checks and balances. But don't listen to me, CLICK HERE to find out more about the administration's disregard for the laws written by the founding fathers. Shoot, CLICK HERE even if you're not convinced. The APCB explains the situation infinitely better than I can!



...I'm still waiting for you to CLICK HERE! Thanks!

my hunger-related strike

This evening I committed an unholy act in the city of Buenos Aires. Are you ready for this?? I ate dinner...at 7:30 p.m. Oh, I can just hear the collective gasp from the audience now. I can also see your brows furrowing in confusion. In case I've neglected to make this clear, Buenos Aires is a city for late sleepers and night owls. Due to its Spanish and Italian roots, the dinner hour comes somewhere around 10 p.m. How does a society function on such a crazy schedule, you ask? Well, for starters, there are very few morning people around here. My first class of the day is always in Puerto Madero, a neighborhood that houses lots of large corporations with posh offices. My earliest class of the week starts at 7:45 a.m. Without fail, every time I roll into work, I check The Coffee Store (an upscale café chain) for patrons. In five months, I have never seen a customer in there before 8:20 in the morning. To give this oddity its full impact, let's imagine this happening in Los Angeles. Picture yourself walking down Figueroa Street downtown among all the high rises of corporate America. You stroll past the dueling Starbucks directly across the street from each other near Seventh Street. You peer inside only to see baristas wiping the counters and loading the coffee bean grinders without a customer in sight. There are no gym goers, no early worm getters, no news junkies reading the New York Times, no ladies who lunch waiting to get the drop on a Macy's early bird sale, no "eight pump sugar free vanilla triple Venti half-caf, non-fat Caramel Macchiato with whip and extra caramel" fiends itching for their first $5 fix of the day. You glance at your watch and notice that it's 7:45 in the morning...on a Wednesday. You begin to wonder if there's been simultaneous terrorist attacks on the 10, the 110, and the 5 freeways to prevent everyone from getting to work because nothing else could explain the complete absence of caffeine addicts at such an hour. To illustrate a bit further...once upon a time, I was a Starbucks barista at the flagship store in downtown Santa Barbara, that's right, sleepy, touristy little Santa Barbara. I always worked the opening shift, and let me tell you that a day never passed without multiple customers in the door before 6 a.m. That's why we opened at 5:30 a.m., after all. By seven-thirty, the place was packed, and it stayed that way until well after 10. But down here in Buenos Aires, the capital city of Argentina, folks won't have it. Sure, a lot of them get in to the office at 8:30 or 9:00, but they sleep so late that few of them have time for a café con leche before punching in for the day. Of course, there's no Starbucks here either...for now anyway.

Whenever I have visitors down here, they always ask how the locals are able to make it through the day seeing as how they eat dinner so late. The only insight I can share is that the lunch rush at my favorite spots downtown runs from about 1:00 to 3:00 p.m. On top of that, cafes start to fill up around five o'clock. Sure lots of folks are simply drinking cortados (a.k.a. macchiato = espresso topped with foam), but many will partake of merienda, which is like a second breakfast or snack. There are usually merienda specials for medialunas (small croissants), tostados (grilled cheese with or without ham), and tortas (cakes). My regular cafes will regularly have plenty of patrons until around 8 p.m. I guess that's how the locals keep their blood sugar levels up until dinner time.

The other question that visitors like to ask me is "Come on, Carly. Do you really eat dinner so late?" It's almost as if eating after 8 p.m. is an impossibility. *Sigh* Well, my answer to that is I usually dine at around 10 or 10:30. I've seen porteños eat as early as 9 o'clock, but even that feels a bit early. From what I can tell, on a usual workday you can expect to eat with locals between 10 and 11:30. Of course, on the weekends, all bets are off. You might go out to eat at midnight or later on a Friday or Saturday night. Anyway, I had a fairly easy time adjusting to the late dinner schedule because I finish work at 8 or 9 p.m. on most days, so it's not like I'm knocking off of work at 6 p.m. and then fooling around doing nothing until it's time to eat. Also, from what my students tell me, they generally work late too. Regular office folks can work until seven or later depending on how busy they are. I've heard differing theories on why they work so late here. Some of my students say that Americans are more efficient than Argentines are. Some Americans point out that Argentines take a longer lunch than folks do in the States. I think there's a bit of truth in both of these assertions.

The only other thing to point out about schedules is that if you're interested in going clubbing here, you better take a siesta. If you get to a club at 2 a.m. you will be one of the first to arrive. Yep, when it's last call at home, porteños are just getting ready to go out. Obviously, you can easily stay out until past dawn or even much later. I recommend catching a nap at around seven or eight if you want to keep up with the club kids around here. Which brings me to my last most asked visitor question, "When do people sleep around here?" Um, they don't. Sleep is for wimps. I have a number of students who constantly yawn through my classes, and no, that's not because my classes are boring. I even teach dirty words upon request. No seriously, I think that some of my students are part vampire because they never seem to get seven hours, let alone a full healthy eight. I don't know how they do it because I take naps between classes, so I'll repeat my standard line on this one. On Saturday night, they roll down the black out shutters and sleep all through Sunday. Think I'm kidding? The locutorio (internet café) across the street from my apartment opens at 5 p.m. on Sundays and closes around midnight. You tell me, hoss. Are they part vampire? Are they professional power nappers? Do they catch up for a week's worth of sleep deprivation in one day? Why not? I try not to judge, just to learn. Of course, that doesn't mean I'm giving up my siestas. That's just nonsense!

So all this brings me back to the beginning. My very own senior citizen early bird special of spaghetti at 7:30 this evening. Why did I do it? Well, for one, I was hungry as all get out having sort of skipped lunch. As I made my way home I thought about sucking it up and eating at 10 like normal. Then I turned down my street only to run smack dab into a giant protest filled with banners, drums, whistles, and chants. As I waded my way through the protestors, I thought of how my evil laundry lady shrunk my sweaters today because she didn't understand me when I told her "wash only". I also recalled how the internet service that I ordered from Speedy DSL three weeks ago has yet to arrive and how I haven't been able to call through to my voicemail for four days now. At that moment I snapped. I made my way up to my apartment, opened my window wide to catch all the drumbeats and put on a little Cannonball Adderley as I boiled a pot of pasta water. Even though I had to decided to rebel, I had to give into the protesting masses outside. They left me no other choice. Besides, I missed most of the protest yesterday on my street as I was catching up on my beauty sleep with my daily little siesta.