Opinion Sur Joven

Change is inevitable. We are surrounded by change on a daily basis when we leave our homes and are faced with a physical and mental landscape that differs from what we faced the day before. If change is the cause then adaptation is the effect. We would fall flat on our faces if we were paralyzed each time change came into our lives. We must learn to live side by side with it despite the potential difficulties and because of the joy it can provide.

Since I arrived in Buenos Aires in late November 2007, I have been forced to adapt to the ways of the Argentine. I am here voluntarily so the movement toward change is one that I embrace wholeheartedly. While at times my misadventures are frustrating, more often than not I find myself laughing and smiling as I live life in this city. Please come with me as I take you through a day in the life of a New Yorker living in Buenos Aires.

Welcome to my world

My morning routine in my apartment does not vary from what I am used to back home because it is a controlled environment, and there are few unknown variables to consider. But as soon as I step out into the world I am bombarded with the movement and energy of a place which is not my own. I wait for the bus on the corner of walk and don’t walk. I reach into my wallet since I do not have a change purse as most Argentines do. (Note to self: purchase change purse.) I know for a fact though that I have the correct change I will need because I always confirm this before waiting in line for the bus. If not then I am forced to walk into a kiosk on any street corner and buy a little something or other that I don’t want. But change is a treasured commodity here, and a single peso carries a value greater than the currency itself.

I see my bus coming down the street and flag it down by waving my hand, hoping that the driver does not pass me (which has happened to me on more than one occasion). He stops to pick me up, and I barely have both feet inside the bus before it speeds off and away to its next stop. “Noventa, gracias,” I say as I wait for my 10 centavos to drop down through the machine. I push my way through the crowd and hope to find a space by a window so I can breathe fresh air. The alternate is being jammed up between people which, especially in the summer, is the equivalent of having my nose directly inserted into the armpit of a soccer player. And to that I say, “no, gracias.” I’m admittedly spoiled though in regards to temperature control on public transportation because in New York there is air conditioning on the buses and the subway.

So I’m on the bus, usually listening to music, and I’m watching the people as they move out of their own spaces and into each other’s. I think about the lives that await these people outside the bus. Where do they go home at night? Who is waiting for them? What will they eat for dinner? The same can be said for any metropolitan area where we are strangers pulled together by the advantages of living in a city. We push to get on the bus, hope that our ride is safe and smooth, and then we exit. For me though my time on the bus is a movie without tickets. There is no camera, but the bus in Buenos Aires is a spectacle of the intersection of random forces. I can save my $17 pesos because I am watching as stories are being made. And although I have trouble admitting it to myself – especially when sweating on my way to work in the January heat – I love what my eyes have the opportunity to see when they are on the bus.

End scene

I work next to the Obelisco, and in my mind this area can roughly be equated to Times Square in New York. I think that most porteños try to avoid this area because it is packed with tourists, there is too much traffic, and any decent meal is over-priced. But this is where my office is located, and I still see the city through the eyes of an awe-struck tourist so I’m not as bothered by the chaos of Centro. In Manhattan though I avoid Times Square at all costs.

I arrive at work and greet each co-worker with a kiss. Initially I did not realize this custom happens at the beginning and end of each workday. I was blown away because an act of this nature in the workplace in the United States could be the basis for a sexual harassment case. I think it is a soft and intimate gesture and a welcome relief. That physical contact is very basic and human. But it is a stark contrast to the corporate America environment I experienced in New York where personal space is to be respected without question.

Another difference that I noted immediately is the very casual conversation heard in the office. It seems to me that no topic is off-limits, and I am often surprised to hear the rough language used in the workplace. I find myself blushing and laughing. Also, the use of MSN Messenger in the office is pervasive. Having an MSN account is like having a last name. You have one as if you were born with it. I did not realize how out of the loop I was my first couple months on the job just because I did not have MSN. And then there are the smoking breaks. I’m not implying that people in the States do not smoke. But in my office it appears that it is more widespread. Taking a pause from work to go outside, smoke, and chat for 20 minutes happens various times throughout the day. I don’t smoke so I’m on the outside looking in on this ritual. But I’m not complaining because I refuse to pick up smoking just to fit in with the culture. That is one step towards becoming Argentine – at least in my workplace – that I am not willing to take.

One other custom in the office stands out in my mind, and it confuses me. When it’s your birthday you bring in medialunas for your co-workers to enjoy. Recently one of my co-workers made her birthday postres from scratch. So I ask the rhetorical question to the air, “If it’s your birthday then why are you working to make everyone else satisfied?” In the States I think the tendency is that on your birthday you are excused from chores like cleaning and cooking. It is your day to relax and be pampered. Sorry, folks, but when my birthday rolls around I don’t think I will be baking any treats for anyone.

My workday comes to a close so I kiss everyone on the cheek and head out. I hop on the subway at 9 de Julio and find myself packed in tighter than when I took the bus in the morning. I don’t think it’s possible for that to be the case, but I am consistently wrong. The pushing and shoving is borderline inhumane and aggressive. It is rush hour in Buenos Aires, and the people are eager to transition from day to night, from business to pleasure. There is no air circulating so we are breathing in each other. I try to focus my thoughts elsewhere, towards my next activity which is dinner with friends.

We are planning to meet at 9:30 PM, but I receive a text from one of them saying that she will arrive closer to 10 PM. I have come to learn that it is not uncommon for Argentines to run late. In fact, I think it is to be expected. The same rule applies for arriving at an event like a birthday party. I now know that I should never show up on time. I have to read between the lines, and those lines are written in a Spanish slang that can be tough for a foreigner to understand.

When I arrived here it took an effort for me to adjust the eating schedule. Meals are pushed back about 2-3 hours when compared to what I am accustomed to in New York. The exception to this is breakfast which is not as heavily emphasized in terms of its importance as in the U.S. Initially I felt hungry all the time and could not grasp the Argentine clock. But now my understanding is that Argentines sleep less. I am not trying to generalize the entire population. But on average, if you’re having dinner at 10 PM or later, spending time with family or friends, and waking up in the morning for work or school, then mathematically I think that Argentines must be sleeping less. One certainty I can confirm is that there are only 24 hours in the day both here and in my country. So do the math.

Another scheduling variance relates to my weekend nights. It is not uncommon to be out and about on the town until sunrise. If that is the case then I end up spending the next day in bed until late afternoon. If this cycle repeats itself week after week then I am losing 1/7 of my life and more or less exchanging one day for the night before I spent out with friends. I don’t think it correlates precisely though, and I often am annoyed with myself for sleeping away my Sunday. But what other option do I have when I climb in bed at 7 AM?

Those are a handful of the logistical differences I have noticed between life in Buenos Aires and New York. None of the changes are so drastic or unwelcome that I am turned off or eager to head home. On the contrary, I thrive on these idiosyncrasies. When living in New York I thought of my commute to work as a nuisance. Here my time on the bus is an adventure. The spaces in between the lives we lead are where I witness fascinating moments of beauty, diversity, and affection.

I have adapted. I do adapt. I will adapt. I continue because I want to see, feel, hear, and smell this country from the inside out. There is progress to be made in the exchange of cultures and concepts. I am moving forward towards a destination inside myself that is unchartered. This is my journey in laughter and in words. There is no map. And I don’t want one.