just deserts.

4 days in a Jeep in southwest Bolivian desert.
3 bloody noses from dust inhalation.
5 lagunas.
100s of flamingos.
12,000 square km of salt flats.
2 cases of severe altitude sickness.
1 llama that enjoyed eye contact.
This is how we spent our Thanksgiving: getting as far from the city lights as possible.


Salt mound ballet











Say hello to my leetle friend.












4:30 am wakeup call for a hike through thousand year old cactus? FINE, I'll get up.












Nope, it's not water. Just salt until the ends of the earth.











Sunrise! So that's what you look like! Our little group of two chatty American girls (whose politics were deemed liberal European), one good-natured Montevidean (our wee Urux), and the coolest Belgian couple outside of waffles and chocolate had a hard time splitting up.






Call me creepy, but ancient Aymara mummies with skin still on is called a jackpot of archaeology (they only found them nine years ago! Talk about great timing!). They all had EXPRESSIONS on their skulls, I'm not kidding! Ahhh, I love mummies, could someone send me that National Geographic with the Kennewick Man?







Dear flamingos: you are so rare and so magenta, I can't help but love you. Also, your legs bend backwards, and I have a lot of respect for that.










Standing on the tracks and waving at Chile on one side and Argentina on the other, but keeping it strictly Bolivia, thank you.









Arbol de Piedra, thanks for allowing me to realize my dream of walking around in a Dali painting.











Something about lava, geysers, and semi-active volcanoes makes me feel like I'm living in the Triassic Period. Don't tell my 8th grade science teacher I don't really know if that's the right period or not.









This was the highest we got, and could feel the air blowing in off the Pacific. When you haven't seen your favorite ocean in 6 weeks, that air feels GOOD.









Llamas are now good for the following things: cholesterol-free steak, prolonged eye contact, earring ideas, really soft sweaters, and sassy substitute best friends.












If you guys need me I'll be down here exploring this kick-ass canyon.

That little hut was home sweet home, where Marlo battled altitude sickness on a cement bed and an old Quechua lady made us the provincial version of elephant ears over an open fire.

Oh, hello, Wonder of Creation. Fancy meeting you here.

Long story short: I'm the luckiest girl in the world in the most beautiful country in South America. Mike Moe, you made me promise to come here, and I owe you big time.

evo it is.

Evo won by a landslide, and I have decided to continue believing in his democratic legitimacy, because sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make an omelette. Or something.

election weekend!

It's election weekend in Bolivia and tomorrow's vote will decide whether or not Evo gets to stay in office. We went to a rally for the opposition party in Sucre's town square the other night, and it's like Obama came to town: Manfred is the next big thing!

Fun fact: Bolivians aren't allowed to buy/have alcohol for the 40 hours leading up to voting! NO DRUNKIES IN THE VOTING BOOTHS, POR FAVOR.

As we spent long days in the desert last week, our driver Sergio and I passed the time in the freezing Altiplano talking about the government (strange thing about a second language: I can carry on a detailed Spanish conversation about politics but sometimes forget how to tell a simple joke. Oy vey). Our first night, as we huddled next to an open stove in an adobe hut, Sergio told me in his slow, round Bolivian drawl about how so many campesinos, including his mother, didn't have a national identity card until Evo mandated that they be free of charge. With that, she joined the masses of poor workers, previously disenfranchised, who put him into office four years ago.
Great deal, right? I always thought the story of Evo's election in 2006 sounded like what politics should be: a poor Aymara campesino makes good, and uses his trailblazing presidency to unite a country in a more equitable system and remind Bolivians that the Quechua and Aymara have significance as well. Oh wow. I'm so idealistic sometimes. As usual, politics are WAY more corrupt and human nature WAY shadier than I want to admit.

My Spanish tutor JuanJose just rolls his eyes when Evo's name comes up, and he is fairly indicative of the even divide between "city Bolivians" and "country Bolivians." Yes, as Sergio told me before, Evo did provide free carnet cards to the campesinos who didn't have them before, but he also did it illegally, since many of them were given double cards. He also traded the identity cards directly for votes. In the villages, elections were not a private affair, as campesinos had to hold up their vote for public review after casting it in the booth. If they didn't vote for Evo, they were punished; for example, public beatings with a belt. And with such measures, he naturally had a landslide victory with the previously disenfranchised villagers. "He has also succeeded in dividing those in the city and those in the campo," JuanJose said with disappointment. "He wants to change the constitution, and when city-dwellers protest (as they did in Sucre recently) they are beat down. Three people died here and many more were injured, but Evo never once acknowledged it or apologized for what happened. People in the city don't like him at all, for good reason."

Later, I chatted with Marisol about the same thing and she shook her head sadly at the unjust government that is just "otra cara de la misma moneda"-- another side of the same coin. She also mourned the lack of education outside of the cities that prevents the majority of Quechua and Aymara villagers from seeing beyond charisma, as well as the placation measures that give them the false sense of progress (for example, a new 50 boliviano monthly stipend for pregnant mothers. 50 bolivianos is about $6: "that's not help! That's an insult!" Marisol cries. But because it's 50 bolivianos more than they got before, they are deceived into thinking the government is progressing).

Voting is on Sunday, and emotions are running high in Sucre.

oh manu.

One final thought on what I have in common with the average Argentine: being a Spurs fan. I love driving through the tiniest towns and seeing little kids playing stickball in the streets with San Antonio jerseys on.

Our reasons are really different, however. Manu Ginobili is the national hero and no one seems to listen to me when I explain that he's a whiner and no one likes him because the Latino drama doesn't fly in the NBA.

Sometimes I just really miss The Admiral.

the worst dollar i ever spent.

After a night of adjusting to the altitude in La Quiaca, we joined hunched campesinos with colorful scarves securing massive crates and/or children to their backs to cross the bridge into Bolivia. Crossing our fingers that a fistful of money and buoyant smiles would suffice for entry instead of yellow fever certificates (currently lost in the Argentine postal system) and almost all of the 300 entry requirements Evo asks of poor Americans, we were happy to find the border guards in jovial moods. They deemed us worthy of 1. getting our passports photos mocked and 2. GETTING VISAS! Here we are with our shiny new Bolivian visas, so young and naive, with no idea of what lay ahead for us. With stomachs full of coca tea, we set off to the train, which by all accounts leaves every Tuesday.
Our first bad news of the day: PSYCH, no trains till Wednesday! Faced with the choice of staying in the god-forsaken border town of Villazon or taking the bus to Tupiza, we weighed our options. We had been warned about the bus to Tupiza. "It's really dangerous," people said. "Wait for the train, it's much safer." Our response? "How dangerous can a bus be, really?" So for 10 bolivianos, just over a dollar, we threw our packs in the belly of a rickety bus and climbed aboard. This was, perhaps, one of the worst decisions I have ever made regarding my personal safety.
We are used to busses smelling strongly of body odor and unidentified comestibles, and this was no different. However, only a quarter of the windows worked, so we sat three in a row in the baking sunshine as Urux kept an eye on the cargo to make sure no one made off with our backpacks. Marlo and I did the following things pre-departure: read Psalms regarding physical protection, kiss our necklaces of St. Christopher and St. Benedict, and hold hands. These were repeated throughout the voyage with increasing desperation and later were augmented by a few Our Fathers and, eventually, resignation to our fate.
The bus hit a pothole before we even left the city, tossing duffel bags out of the overhead compartments onto the heads of unsuspecting passengers and causing the bus to tilt so far to the left that I had visions of myself under a pile of the passengers next to me. And with this fortuitous beginning, we set out into the desert.
Oh, the desert. It really means business in southern Bolivia. Huge clouds of dust billowed into the bus with astonishing frequency, finding their way in great gusts through the few functioning windows and half-broken skylights, and surrounded the bus so completely that we wondered how the driver could see to drive. Not that it really mattered, though, because there WAS NO ROAD. Nope, just a "suggestion" path through a desert that, although appearing flat, pitched our poor bus around like a ragdoll. The rattling of seats made conversation impossible and I had images of the entire vehicle crumbling to pieces right there in the desert where Butch Cassidy died.
Then the mountains began, which is when I seriously began to consider standing up and saying a few words. Driving through cliff territory with no guard rail and only a couple inches of wiggle room? And all that business we heard about Bolivian bus drivers drinking on the job? TELL ME THAT'S JUST A RUMOR. I felt the bus slow down and peeked hopefully out the window. Rather than seeing our destination, I saw the trail ending in front of us. With a cliff to our right and a river to our left, we apparently had nowhere to go.
Silly American! If there's not a road, you can just DRIVE THROUGH THE RIVER. As Urux laughed "only in South America," our driver took a direct left and drove straight into the water to continue our journey.
This was an unfortunate time to look out the window again. Our route had not been kind to previous busses, and we gazed in terror at another bus exactly like ours, toppled on its side and resting on a gravel island in the river. On the verge of tears and strongly considering getting out and walking the rest of the way, we couldn't move from being paralyzed by terror and having peed our pants.
We finally made it to Tupiza after three hellish hours. We never want to see another bus for as long as we live. This story isn't even funny to me yet, and I need a drink.*

*This was written over a week ago, and we did end up getting some local moonshine to celebrate life. However, completely forgetting that we are in a 3rd World country and ice is a no-no, we got stomachaches from the fruit liquor and are sticking to wine from now on. Also, this story still isn't funny to me.

dear evo morales: you´re the best

I´m thrilled to pieces that there is a whole page in my passport now dedicated to Bolivia´s colorful and expensive visa! Life has changed a wee bit since Argentina, however.

Things I have: aching lungs from the altitude, a bloody nose from the dust, an increasing fascination with the clothes and politics and mentality of this country, a great duo of travel buddies, and my Bible which kept me company on the scariest bus ride of my life.

Things I won´t have for a while: ATMs, Wifi, toilet paper, fresh fruit, shaved legs, and stress.

Not too shabby.

i'm dusty.

We took a bus from Jujuy to La Quiaca today, but for those of you who are mentally picturing a Greyhound, knock it off. This bus wouldn't go more than 30 miles an hour for the first leg of the journey, and we genuinely thought of getting off and walking alongside it, occasionally patting it on the side like an old mule about to be put out to pasture. When it got up to about 55, we cheered-- until the DOOR FELL OFF. What was supposed to be a 4 hour trip to the border turned out to be a 7 hour pathetic limp across northern Argentina, stopping on roadsides and at mechanics without any hope of reattaching said door.

Now we're hanging out on the Bolivian border, chewing coca leaves and plotting how to not get denied entry and/or robbed tomorrow morning as we head into Evo Morales territory. Stay tuned.

that's why i come up here: NATURE

It's official, we are living in an episode of Planet Earth.

Whenever I think about being "one with nature," I think about 5th grade camp, when we were forced to hike around in the rain, shower in bathrooms with mud on the floor and then sleep on plastic mattresses in damp cabins. Can you really blame a girl for preferring the indoors after traumatic experiences like "the solo forest walk" during the rainy season at OPI? Well here's a fun newsflash: when you get to be warm, being outside is the business!

Outside of Salta, San Lorenzo is a little hidden gem in the mountains and currently frontrunner for the place I most want to buy property abroad. We gathered up Urux and this Belgian kid on a hike into the forest* and along with our little nature walk came the following bonuses: a baby cow (calf, some might say) running rampant and a zipline across the valley, with a view of Salta in the middle. Zero complaints.

After bussing into Jujuy and suffering from mild heatstroke, I would have done anything to get off the sidewalk and next to a tree. Instead we found tiny little Purmamarca, town of the Siete Colores, a mountain range that actually DOES have seven colors of rock blended into it like a layer cake *whisper* from heaven. The wind whipped through the narrow streets and we had to turn our backs and scrunch our eyes shut against the miniature sandstorms as they stung the backs of our legs and settled between our molars. The Siete Colores hike involved a herd of rams and sheep noisily tumbling down the mountain as we made our way up and a lot of feeling very small and incredulous at the world. I could really get used to this whole "nature" thing if this keeps up.

*Real story: Urux dragged us into the woods. We whined about wearing flipflops in snake territory for the first five minutes, then left the boys in the dust.

PHOTOS TO COME LATER! The internet doesn't work when you're stuck in the middle of nowhere.

facts.

The rumors are true: Argentine babies are hatched out of eggs and the Divine Baby Jesus owns a bakery in Salta.

our day in salta.

I counted 72 monster mosquito bites on my physical person this evening (why yes, I do look like a leper: 68 on my legs, two on my shoulders, and two in places that a lady shall not mention. Argentine moskeets will get fresh with you and ask no questions), while Marlo handled some personal biz in the water closet. Despite some physical ailments and a lull before Bolivia, here's what we managed to do today...

Wait out another thunder and lightning storm. Look to the sky to catch heavy raindrops in our mouths.





Track down Urux in the bus station and reroute his whole vacation around our plans for him (ie. helping us cross the Bolivian border).


See beautifully and ostentatiously ornate cathedrals...

...including Biblical hieroglyphs made out of cement.

The rain was more welcome this time than it was during the Tigre disaster, because Salta is a hot little potato. Our first day, we had just enough time to dry out our backpacks after FlechaBus left them under the air conditioners and returned them to us completely soaked. It's ok, I didn't want all of my earthly possessions to be dry anyway! Oh travel. I'm off to put more calamine on these bites and make sure Marlo is alive, but I'll leave you with this pensive gentleman waiting for the puddles to dry:

sublimity on the road.

Here’s what I remembered as I stood on the verge of a massive precipice and peered down into the churning whiteness of Iguazu Falls: I will happily shell out fistfuls of pesos, trek obediently along well-worn trails with other travelers, stand and wait for trains and busses and shuttles and my turn to come, if the end result is having the massive good fortune to be able to see a wonder of the world.

I have now experienced 4 overnight busses in my life, and each one delivered me to the doorstep of something jaw-dropping: 12 hours spent hugging the Croatian coast and fearing for our lives meant that my Mom and I got to spend days in Dubrovnik, one of the most beautiful cities we had ever seen. 10 hours from Tikal, Guatemala to Antigua meant that I got to hike a volcano with two of my best friends that actually looked like Middle Earth. And two days ago, an overnighter from Buenos Aires whisked us out of the smog and bustle of the city and dropped us directly in the middle of a sweltering and gorgeous jungle, in the middle of which crashes the world’s second largest waterfall, evenly splitting the border between Argentina and Brasil. (But of course, it’s never that simple. Due to a late-arriving bus and an overbooked hostel, we stayed with Miguelina, an older lady with a monkey in her front yard and a washboard on the back patio. She insisted on making us salt pastes for our bug bites and scolded us for not leaving more time for the falls. We were only following advice! We didn’t know we’d need 8 whole hours to experience it! Tired, stressed that we had cut ourselves short, we rushed to the national park 4 hours before closing.)

Half of travelling is enjoying the current moment for what it is, despite the fact that it doesn’t look quite like you’d expected it to—you’re more tired or hungover or distracted or hungry than you wanted to be, and the photos of these places don’t take that into account. As the first Spaniard I ever met would say, “PERO VALIÓ LA PENA, NO?!” Yes, it’s worth the exhaustion and time and money and work—it was completely worth it and always will be, because places like Iguazu Falls (or the Grand Canyon, or the Himalayas, or the Sinai Desert) are more than just places; they are states of humble recognition of our own size (very, very small), and our relativity to everything else, and the grandeur of the Creator.

Alain de Botton, in The Art of Travel, talks about the sweet pleasure there is in being made to feel small by the great wonders of nature. In fact, the word sublime was originally intended and used exclusively for the purpose of explaining the feeling one gets in the presence of something so vast and awe-inspiring in nature that ordinary lexicon couldn’t encompass it. For all their beauty, in no way can the cathedrals and pyramids and statues that dot the surface of our shared tierra strike the deep internal chord that a natural wonder of such size and gravity can. Man-made structures are our attempts to create some kind of immortality for ourselves, to remind our children’s children that we existed—here we worshipped, lived, here we meant something. But all the construction and strivings of mankind give way in light of the simplicity and grandeur of things like the wide, meandering river that suddenly gives way to a thundering mass of foam and mist. Monday afternoon, next to two Austrians with painful bedbug bites and a troop of American senior citizens, we stood in the presence of the sublime.

It feels silly, taking photos of something like this. Like shots of a particularly gorgeous sunset (which we were also blessed with on the way home), you have to include a disclaimer when showing shots to people who weren’t there: “It was really more massive than this 3x5 shows. You had to hear the thunder to really understand it. It’s not exactly what this looks like.” But, in minute attempts to capture pieces of existence, photographs stand as small reminders of big things. I won’t even be mad if you don’t think these are that impressive.

So, now it’s Wednesday night, and by 10 o’clock this morning, we had already put in a 40 hour week of riding on busses. We are now tucked away in Salta, having watched the scenery change from suburbs of Buenos Aires to the thick foliage of almost-Brasil to flat, green fields hosting peaceful horses and then to the drier, Eastern-Washingtonesque hills of the northwest territory. Bus rides, when it comes down to it, are still better than flying. How else would we appreciate the effort it takes to reach the sublime?

best of buenos aires

We are bussing out of this joint in 2 hours, and in honor of our home of three weeks, I bring to you: Best of Buenos Aires 2009 (results from popular vote of one, ME, because I run this blog and don’t you forget it)

Best Restaurant Owner: Gay New Jerseyan Kevin, owner of Empire Thai, because he sat with us for three hours and told us facts about history, called Maradona a “horse’s ass,” and let us sample his fancy schmancy vodka

Best Serious Statue That Looks Ridiculous Now That a Pigeon Landed on Its Head:













Best Waiter: tie between Julio at Café Victoria for his absolute sincerity and the fact that he doesn’t try to creep on girls like all the other waiters there/ the African kid at Pizza Libre, because he smiles like he means it and doesn’t give us attitude when we ask for the bill

Best Effort After a Long Day: the exhausted guy who could barely squeak out an “hermosssaaa” as we passed… man, you can only creep on so many chicks before you just get tired, you know?

Best Billboard: Looking closely is worth your time.













Best Ignoring of Personal Space: the entire populace of this city. This is one cultural adjustment I may never make.

Best Dream World: Alvear Palace Hotel. Additional thanks for letting us walk through all the prom gowns and pretend like we belonged there. And for the fact that we stole some minor items from the bathroom.

Best Musician: Our esteemed neighbor Jose Cullen!

Best Jewish Family Taking an Awkward Family Photo:













Best Douchey Line in a Bar: “Typical Americans,” from Gabriel “Like the Angel” Argentine, when we wouldn’t go dancing with him. Querido Gabriel; time for me to let you in on a little nationalistic newsflash of my own. In America, guys have to think of something more interesting to say than “do you like this band?” before girls will dance with them. Sorry brah.

Best Baked Pumpkin Filled with Pancetta, Corn and Cheese: Bodega Campo, when can I move in?

Best Waste of a Work Day: tie between our apartment doorman and the Argentine postal service
Best Gift from a Stranger: the piece of candy Marlo picked up for an old lady who dropped it on the sidewalk, who was then so touched that Marlo bothered that she gave it to her. Marlo is now keeping it as a good-luck charm

Best Accidental English Mangling: referring to the Catholic church as a cult. Friendly reminder, not all cognates translate directly!

Best Grave at Recoleta: three way tie between Evita/ the one with a real human leg bone just sitting in its busted up coffin/ the sassy statue of a leaning man

Best Reminder That Hipsters are the Same Everywhere: the angsty band we saw at La Cigale; 3 out of 4 had plaid flannel shirts and all had skinny jeans. We were so loudly enamored with their Capitol Hill look that they tracked us down after the show to give us a free CD.

Best Lack of Decision Making on a Hairstyle: this guy. Can’t choose between a mullet, rattail, Mohawk or just a normal buzz? Yeah, just do all four.













Best Deal on Artichokes: 10 for 12 pesos

Best Vitamin C Bomb: the guys who squeeze you 8 oranges on the spot.



















Best Unidentified Dance Move While Drinking Wine Out of a Mug: Marlo A. Hartung.

drowned rat chronicles

"I'll laugh about this once I don't look like I have a combover." -Marlo Hartung

Original plan: Colonia, Uruguay. Until people told us it was expensive and boring compared to the utopian Tigre, the town of 500 rivers that look like tiger stripes. "It's a little Venice!" people said. "It's the best kept secret in Argentina! You have to go! They have water-ambulances and water-schoolbusses and water-pizza delivery!"

So on another hot and sunny morning, we hopped on the train with the unwashed masses and headed an hour north to check out Tigre for ourselves.

The clouds rolled in alongside our train.

At first, we laughed at the droplets. Then got a little quieter when lightning streaked above us. Then completely gave up trying to stay dry as every single business, boat launch, and water taxi closed up shop and we were left outside, wading through puddles as deep as our shins and laughing as hard as we could about our luck.

Eventually a tour bus driver swung his doors open, pulled us onboard, and gave us towels and garbage bags to put over ourselves. Then, in classic Argentine style, took pictures on his camera phone and asked us when we would all have dinner together. (Sir, that all depends on how quickly we recover from the whooping cough that I feel developing in my lungs as we speak.)

Finally we found our way to the train station through the tormenta and have never been so glad to see shelter.

Tigre, by the numbers:

1: % of the city observed

2: dulce de leche ice cream cones consumed because we felt sorry for ourselves

0: jungle tours taken

0: steak dinners ordered

0: leather purses found at the Mercado de Frutos

Oh yes. We've been to Tigre. If anyone has any questions about the town, we're your girls.

tell your mom you love her!

My first real kiss was Ian Lombardi, the school bad boy who wore leather jackets and drove a cool car and helped my mom make chicken dinners. He went to culinary school in Italy and started a restaurant in Tacoma last year called Merende. I was going to stop by and congratulate him before I left but somehow, time slipped away from me.


I just found out that Ian killed himself the day after we landed, and I can't stop shaking. I think of all the people in my life who mean so much to me and don't want to waste a minute in telling them. It's so cliche to talk about the transience of time and how life is short, but reading the obituaries and seeing familiar faces is just a reminder that I don't want to let a day go by without hugging my mom and telling my world how thankful I am for each person.

If you're reading this, you mean more to me than you know. Don't forget to pass it on... today, not tomorrow.

all the fashion news you can handle at one time

Ladies and gentlemen, here is your Buenos Aires fashion report:

Let’s start with the old ladies of this blessed land. These women know exactly what they’re doing with proportion and details. If you are an aging yet fashionable woman here, here is your uniform: a puffy blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, paired with slingbacks. Red lipstick. And bling, wherever you want to wear it. We pass 80 year olds in the street who look more pulled together than Carolina Herrera and Anna Wintour combined. And always, ALWAYS, pairs of old lady friends show up at whatever café we’re in looking like the newest issue of Elderly Vogue. We have seen countless little sets of amigas with palsy and manicures whispering secrets to each other over tiny empanadas. Elderly of Bs. As., I salute you for looking classier than every Florida retiree in existence and for reminding me that there is room for style after a certain age, and it doesn’t involve matching sweat combos with kittens on them.

These cranky old bats are not indicative mood-wise of most women here, but they do have scarves and pearl earrings. Note the sneaky angle of the camera as I tried to document them without igniting their wrath.

Next up: dear baby Jesus and all his holy angels, where did all these MEN COME FROM? These men who know how to wear a three piece suit like they’ve been doing it since toddlerhood? I’m flying them back to the States so they can teach seminars with titles like “How to Tuck In Your Shirt 101” and “Shoe Polish and Irons: What You’ve Been Missing Out On.” Or “Even If You Aren’t in the Fortune 500, You Can Look Like a Damn Supermodel Just Walking Down the Street.” It’s jaw-dropping, the miracles these guys work with a decent tailor and a well-placed belt. Oh, and impeccable bone structure on each and every one of them doesn’t hurt either. I keep wanting do some street photography to show you what these men are doing to our sartorial standards but I get SO SHY whenever I see one of them coming my way. Just use your imaginations, people.

However, even in the city of a thousand fashion hits, there is at least one MAJOR miss. Now this unfortunate look can be seen on all ages, body types and confidence levels, which is part of why it’s so upsetting. Here we have a classic example of the Pants That Will Not Be Contained:

Yes, what you have seen is a tight ankle/calf situation leading up to a baggy thigh area, complete with pockets that don’t fall with the rest of the pant. Combine this with color choices from magenta to tennis ball green and friends, we have a fashion disaster on our hands. In their natural habitat, these pants can be seen most often with their cousins, the infamous Dreadlocked Mullet and Nonsensical English Phrase on a T-shirt. This look can be described as “horrifying.”

This concludes your live Bs. As. Fashion rundown. Signing out,

IWWAADCBEDTNRJ
(I Wear Wrinkled American Apparel Dresses and Cowboy Boots Every Day and Thus Have No Room to Judge)

movie night.

Movie theater by our house: looks like a jet plane inside. You give them 12 pesos, they give you a ticket to sit in the. longest. theater ever. Like NFL football field long. And only about ten seats wide.

The experience was quite globalized. We listened to the movie in German, read it in Spanish, and I whispered the English translations to Marlo.

Entre Nosotros won a bunch of awards in Germany, but we both hated it. Especially the ending.

more politics.

Fun fact I learned today: graffito is the singular form of graffiti. Who knew?





Yanks out of Latin America!












Uniforms warp men and make them crazy.















We're here to protect you.











Freedom to choose! Free, legal abortion!

...which is why you're speaking English?

Let the capitalists pay for the crisis.

hola, vecino!

On one side of our little apartment: headache-inducing electropop that pulsates no matter the time of day.

On the other: delightful live jams from a band that plays rock, soul, tango, folk, and anything else your ears are interested in.

Clearly we had no choice but to play favorites with our neighbors, and became friends with Jose* and Agustin, two music students who never fail to delight us with beats and were kind enough to overlook our pathetic Spanish and include us in their group. Which is how we got to their Peruvian bandmate Alvaro's house on Saturday night and spent many moons participating in the following activities:

1. Singing Rolling Stones, Ray Charles and Michael Jackson really loudly while they backed us up with several instruments at once

2. Listening carefully while they taught us Argentine/Peruvian folk songs

3. Learning new words (sacacorches=corkscrew)

4. Letting Agustin look past our utter lack of rhythm and teach us his new passion, tango dancing

5. Being really, really content with life

*Jose lets us call him Vecino (Neighbor) and nothing else, which is also kind of him. We thought we might be freaking him out a little by our enthusiasm until he told us that the previous tenants in our apartment were two old drunk people who fought all the time, threw bottles of whiskey off the balcony and buzzed on everyone's doorbells at 5 am. It hasn't yet been confirmed that he was comparing us favorably to them, but just wanted you to know the classiness level of the building we're living in.