the Brazilian un-Barbie

It's impossible not to note the female bodies in Brazil since beaches abound and less is more with Brazilian bikinis. So since arriving in Brazil, or rather since first stepping foot on the beach in Rio, I noticed a difference between the apparent female body image here versus that in the States. In the states, the skinny girls cringe at the thought of baring it in a bikini and the more formidable ones don't dare take off that tee. Yet the beaches in Brazil are filled with women of all shapes and sizes wearing little more than some lycra strings. Granted there are an overwhelming number of women prancing around with the "perfect" bodies, but moreover there are females of all shapes and ages out their enjoying themselves all the same.

The point that I wanted to make when I decided to search for articles regarding body image in Brazil, was that although body-conscious in Brazil, the image is healthier than that of the States, where women are more often found hiding themselves if they fail to bare a strong resemblance to Kate Moss. Yet what I found instead was a bit more the contrary, stating that "of the 160 million people in Brazil, a quarter of a million go under the knife each year." Granted I didn't take the time to look up the number in the states (this is a blog, not a report, people!), but this number is enough to show that Brazilian women are indeed very aware of their bodies. I therefore decided to add the article here, describing this consequent BAD body image. As a sidenote, Brazilian women, it states, contrary to both Barbie and women of the U.S., want small breasts and a large behind. (who knew I was coming to the right place for my own figure!!!!)

Although this large number of sliced and sculpted Brazilians exists, I still stick to my point that there are plenty more women of all shapes in Brazil willing to bare it at the beach than in the states. So learn something from this my fellow female compatriots and break free from your over-sized tees and over-priced cutesy swimsuit cover-ups!

In an attempt to maintain contact with my dwindling average of 2.1 readers(mom, dad, and the sporadic die-hard friend, as it can't possibly be more than that at this point!)I will turn my mushy, feely blog into an updated travel log. Here goes...

Adoro Brasil

and why do I adore Brazil?

After spending a week in Rio de Janeiro I have concluded that not only should Christ the Redeemer be included in the new 7 wonders of the world, but rather the WHOLE city of Rio! Now take this with a salt cube because it is my subjective opinion, however, in addition to breathtaking sights of cliffs interlaced with ocean and favelas (ghetto neighborhoods), the city buzzes with beach energy year-round (I assume, since I am here in the heart of winter!) The cariocas, or Rio de Janeiro natives, don't take for granted their homeland either, and this consequent passion for the city could be what leads to the thick aura present.

In addition to the aesthetic and intangible attraction, Rio also has all the little things I need, or at least so love. Sandwich and juice bars literally pack the streets, satisfying both the carnivore and the vegetarian simultaneously. Every kind of fresh fruit I've ever wanted and special types with untranslatable portuguese names because they are unique to brazil abound. On the beach it seemed as though my favorite foods and drinks were following me, as the vendors constantly wander around with their grilled shrimp, seafood empadas, fruit juices, kebabed cheese, sweet biscuits... I think if Rio were safe to walk the streets at night I'd have to make a mass apology to my loved ones at home, because they'd have to fly south to see me.

My ode to Rio is far from done, but since I've already left and headed up here to Bahia where I will park it for the next month, I'll stop now so that I can start soaking up all the samba-reggae.

Club Los Amigos has indeed become a group of my closest lately. Los Amigos in this case being my friendly video rental place down the street. I´m not going to sugarcoat it. I like the foreign films and can´t get my filthy hands on enough of them. So in the spirit of sharing I´m going to give a little and just wait for my turn to TAKE. ok? Here I give... and then you all give to me... your favorite movie recommendations, that is. (Preferably dark and/or Spanish or Portuguese language films that I have not yet seen)

you MUST I repeat see the following
NOTES ON A SCANDAL (or Escándulo if you´re looking at the Spanish-speaking vid club... a bad title translation as always)
THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND
SEX AND LUCÍA (be forewarned, it was voted the most erotic of the year in which it was produced and therefore has potential for being shockingly or beautifully sexual)
NACIDO Y CRIADO (this will not be entirely easy or possible for many since it is a rather obscure Argentine film recently released on video, but take note all the same)
RUSSIAN DOLLS (the less-well known sequel to my personal favorite intl. comedy, Spanish Apartment)
...and I do realize that this entry lacks an overall synopsis of the films, but as I do not pretend nor care to be a film critic I am choosing to ignore the two-dimensional nature of my writing today.

great! now I´ll just let karma take hold and wait for the movie recommendations to flood in from all two corners of the world! (2.6 readers does not allow full global coverage by any means)

Life has the overwhelming ability to normalize itself within a surprisingly short amount of time. Although I had long coveted this Buenos Aires life before coming, it quickly lost its exotic glimmer and became my day-to-day. For fear of triteness I will avoid using any reference to a self-inflicted bodily pinch that would interrupt the dream and push it into reality. Yet basically I am forced to remind myself that this much anticipated life was just that from my previous undergraduate standpoint.

Through the relatively quick normalization process my writing and emails have in turn become vague and lack the characteristic shiny detail that they previously possessed. Peering through the rosy panes of nostalgia in years to come, I recognize that my life is nothing but extraordinary. (How can I even dare to entertain the idea that this life is as normal as that which I lived in Madison, Wisconsin? Well here comes the beauty because that is the bouyant ability we possess to dream and conquer and move on. Rather than sounding brutish it is beautiful living the dream, not meaning the dream as such, but the constantly changing dream.) I like to think of myself as that cat that pounces after the catnip the owner so masterfully keeps dragging away. Does the cat even want that nip? Would that make it the happy cat it thinks it could be? Of course not. And I don´t want the nip either. Or perhaps I get the nip nearly every time and just have the advantage of chasing after it again.

Now as I am undoubtedly living in the now (as described in the former post as you may well know, dear reader) I have decided to post pictures of myself chasing the nip throughout the city, trying not to anticipate where it will take me next. Here you will see a whole slew of Argentinities with the primal purpose being to push the present tenses on myself.

Here I am visiting Evita, copying the most expensive drink in BA in the comfort of my own kitchen, making "empanadas as big as your head", learning tango, wandering the streets in search of the vintage rags I deem worthy or Argentine enough to clothe my body, studying Portuguese with a bunch of argentines, frequenting my favorite cafes in the hood, and basking in all the Malbec wine with my friends here.

“Oh won´t you stay. We´ll put on the day. And we´ll talk in present tenses.” -Joni Mitchell

How often do we talk in present tenses? Or upon paraphrasing, how often do we find ourselves talking in those of the past and future? Buenos Aires is a city that lives in its past, reveling in all the glorious richness it has previously enjoyed and attempting to transplant it into present times. Simultaneously I am struck by the overwhelming amount of future talk that the foreigners here engage in.

The city is filled with foreigners (ahem, yours truly) in search of beautiful people, art, style, adventures, Spanish, and any of the other picturesque aspects that characterize BsAs. Perhaps most of all we just want to find ourselves in the context of this aesthetic. Since I am a clear example of this group of foreigners and it turns out that the wide majority of my friends are European, we fit the profile, that is, guilty of indulgent adventures and plagued by long wine-filled talks of the future. Aside from the fact that we are living a portion of our own dreams as we speak, we are tremendously tortured by the next step. I hardly escape the solitude of my (tiny) twin bed and I am faced with infinite “where-to´s?” (not meaning the next restaurant!!)

I am brought to the question section and begin by asking myself if human nature is innately focused on the next step? Is it therefore unnatural to fight the looming future and “talk in present tenses”? I´m led to believe that it could rather be a privilege of the people I am surrounded by, meaning our predisposition for avoiding the metaphorical path combined with our economic status as well.

I want more than anything to stop looking forward and to use all my senses (five plus) to live here for however long that may be. My deep belief in fate may come to my aid in this respect. Since everything happens for a reason in my world I can live in the present knowing that the time will come when the next step is clear to me. Although I need no justification for living here because I know it is right, living abroad naturally provokes the constant peek behind into home and whether or not you should be back there. The constant tension between missing your life there and owing that life a return date so that it does not crumble into a period of grieving for losing a loved one, seems to be the perfect recipe for taking the time to at least talk to myself in present tenses.

ya volvííí... I´m sure that I´ve retained an average of 2.6 readers, so I´ll keep this first entry to a painless account of the void that has been my last two months.

I was fortunate enough to travel down to Bariloche, the Argentine chocolate heaven (does it really require a more specific name than that?), cross the border to Chile and work my way up to Santiago through some long coveted seafood (otherwise known as nowhere-to-be-seen-in-Argentine-cuisine) and Pisco Sours, a cocktail not to be taken lightly. Other than my gastronomic highlights, my favorite part of the trip turned out to be visiting two of Pablo Neruda´s three houses in Chile. I was apparently not inspired enough to take any really exquisite photos for the sharing, but as predicted have found myself deep into a Neruda book ("Confieso que he vivido", for my many Neruda fan friends!) After plenty of nights spent buzzed off of the one Pisco Sour that it took to do the job, I headed back to Buenos Aires to meet my best friends who came to visit.

I was lucky enough to have spent the following two red wine-hazed weeks exploring Argentine cuisine and Uruguayan hostels with the best travel partners I could have asked for. I renewed my appreciation for Buenos Aires through the enthusiasm that my friends showed for empanadas, wine, mate, dulce de leche, provoleta, parrillas, and the always later than all hell nightlife. I guess I also carved out a new place in my heart for my Palermo apartment, more specifically my balcony, which the guys couldn´t seem to get out of their heads... and off of which we couldn´t seem to budge them.

I also rejuvenated my forceful passion for Uruguay, this time not only enjoying Montevideo to the fullest at my favorite hostel (Red Hostel, to squeak in my marketing plug), but also escaping to one of the most amazing places I´ve been, Cabo Polonio. I could write an entire post just on this surfer´s paradise which due to its status as a protected nature reserve does not allow cars into the peninsula and lacks electricity entirely. We rented a cabin, warmed ourselves by our hand-made fire, and gathered water with a bucket from the well. Needless to say we were relaxed as peach pits, and had a hard time leaving.




There´s so much to say about my trip that I guess I´ve cleared the problem right up by saying nothing at all. I´ll add some pictures and just say that I love all of my friends more than they will ever know. oh and the same goes for Uruguay as well.

After writing the last entry over a week ago, I´ve pondered that perhaps temporarily misplaced will to write is more rooted in the telephone.

In the midst of my constant daily tribulations in Buenos Aires my friends often reminded me that my biggest problem was communication, more specifically, my many phone problems. As could be expected in my simple life that underfloweth with modern technological conveniences, we had no land line (teléfono fijo) in my apartment and I therefore had bought an Argentine cell phone.

For the general population in Argentina monthly phone “plans” and contracts do not apply. One merely pops into the store to buy the cell and receive a phone number. From that point on it is up to the user to purchase his or her own minutes through phone cards that are sold in drug stores sprinkled throughout the streets. This sounds fairly straight forward, but in reality one must first CHOOSE the cell phone company from which he or she would like to purchase the phone. There exist various companies and multiple opinions as to which is recommendable. I am telling you that CTI Móvil is not one of such. One of the most common phrases uttered between my friends and I when greeting one another (after the standard kiss and hello!) was “CTI es una mierda!” meaning “CTI is a piece of shit!” This customary outburst was rooted in longstanding communication troubles between our friends. Perhaps that´s why we became so close, we´d overcome a lot just to spend time together each day.

Now I realize that this entry is getting long (I uphold that I am generally long-winded), but believe me, this is entry could carry on in much greater depth and with examples abounding.

Let me just sum it up to say that using a cell phone in Buenos Aires involves incessant texting between friends, because speaking for just a total of 4 minutes could necessitate a new card, and to point out the obvious, buying a new calling card every 4 minutes of talk gets old. So as a general rule people text to make plans, schedule dates, chat, flirt, and to check in. It seemed ok at first, because talking on the phone is quite possibly the most nerve-racking part of speaking a second language. I was, therefore, more than happy to text rather than talk over the city noises that inevitably invaded cell conversations. Happy, that is until I started doubting friendships over the dubious arrival of my text messages and the subsequently missing responses.

The most drastic of these situations took place with my Jeroen. Since we had become such close friends, I was nothing less than bewildered when I stopped receiving replies to my text messages. I was brought to tears after a string of events during which I had convinced myself Jeroen was ignoring me in an attempt to drop me as a friend. Throughout the long, gory process of my increasingly hopeless attempts at messaging Jeroen, Philipp tore his hair out, repeatedly urging a ( quite possibly more hysterical and less rational) me to simply ask Jeroen why he wasn´t responding (or whether he even received the messages as Philipp intuitively hypothesized.)

In a rare case where male intuition trumped female, Jeroen had indeed been texting me and as none of our messages had arrived to one another he had suffered the same doubts regarding my non-response.

CTI Móvil-1
Jeroen and Anna-0

Nearly as soon as I got through the rough patch with Jeroen, my messages began arriving to some friends in multiple parts, to others as unreadable codes, and yet to others not at all.

CTI Móvil-2
Trygve, Philipp, Hugo, and Anna-0

I soon became a scrappy communicator, shortening my texts, making calls that didn´t exceed 10 seconds, and using email to ask my friends to dinner. In no way was an actual phone CONVERSATION an option. I´d like to say that I beat CTI (or the Argentine cell system in general), but I must admit that my phone usage was sketchy at best.

Now that I am back in the states on break, despite my avoidance of TV, I´ve been back on the phone wagon, talking my way through the day. Is it this easy means of communication that has dulled my senses and put a damper on my creative writing? Must I blame the media and the TV when it is just my own personal usage of the convenience? I don´t look forward to the continued miscommunications between friends, but I´ll venture to say that I do greatly anticipate the revival of my more primitive senses and the renewal of my more creative self. In fact it would be more wholly accurate for me to say that it was not the city of Buenos Aires that inspired me, but the abundant melancholy that dwells in a city lacking the complacency of smooth-running technology. This porteño life offers me the opportunity of not only dealing with crises but reveling in them through my writing.

I feel guilty, yet it is the guilt of a newfound lack of motivation and perhaps even numbness to my current state of events. I trace the guilt back into other feelings relating to the absence of a creative outlet, which I most commonly find in my writing. I notice that I become complacent in both my thoughts and past times here at home and have to guess that it is due to both my specific routine (the rut of reading) and modern conveniences (ode to the TV).

I have never been one to outwardly take a stand against TV and its brain-numbing characteristics, but perhaps this is simply because I´d never lived a life without any TV until moving to Argentina. Now that I´m back for break, I realize just how small the presence of pre-packaged entertainment was in my life in Buenos Aires the past six months. Here I will set aside the topic of my time spent reading novels in both countries, because I find no problem with it other than the fact that I read here in Wisconsin, while I was doing a dozen other more engaging activities in Argentina. It turns out that these activities which I will soon name were infinitely more thought-provoking than the reading itself. I´d estimate my viewing at an average of one television program (or 1 hour of TV) and 1 movie every 3 weeks or so (sounds random, but it´s a rough estimate!) Furthermore, I was without a telephone on which I could talk, and internet during the evenings.

So what did I do instead in Buenos Aires? I wrote. I wrote a lot. I made collages. I studied Portuguese. I drank mate and talked for hours with Camilo. I drank wine and Quilmes with Hugo and Maxime. I ate long, carefully prepared dinners with Philipp and Trygve. I walked for hours on end, finding every vintage store in Buenos Aires, spending uncannily low sums of pesos while expanding my collection of unique antique clothing. I practiced obscure Spanish vocabulary and word usage with Danielle.

Oddly enough, least of all I read books, my most common activity here in Wisconsin. I was basically interacting with my surroundings in every free minute and barely recall a moment in which I was merely a passive passenger. Did I enclose myself in a book as I often do here? Did I think about TV and miss it? No. In fact I was only reminded of TV when I was told from time to time that I was missing out on a telling part of the porteño culture. Even then I only pondered the absence of TV momentarily before realizing that I had instead become more observant and sensitive to my surroundings in a sort of sub-conscious effort to combat the missing cultural window (or glowing screen?) I was bright-eyed at all times, reading magazines and dailies and witnessing vain consumers on the trendiest streets or the tattered vendors on the most decrepit avenues. I was more alive and aware than I´d ever been, taking in preconceptions and turning them into realities through my own daily blunders.

I was often privy to rush home and write, recounting all of my daily horrors and humours and of course my ever-pressing emotional updates. Yet here I am at home, struggling through situations of health and relationship that I never thought I´d be dealt and I am numb, lacking the drive to write, something that so comforted and excited me just one month prior. Is this a consequence of habit from my prior life at home in Wisconsin or merely complacency that can be traced back to the TV and the current convenience of entertainment? Either way I suppose I´m contradicting myself as I climb my way out of the self-described guilt of routine by writing this very entry.