Last night, I went to an American-style Thanksgiving gathering that consisted of five Americans, a Mexican, a Colombian, an Argentine, and delicious food. Yes, I celebrated Thanksgiving in Buenos Aires because that’s what real Americans do. And I’m an American, damn it.
We ate a whole chicken, corn, stuffing, mashed potatoes, chicken tikka masala wings (prepared by Rashmee), bread, and pound cake. Unfortunately, there was a not a turkey in sight; we substituted it with chicken because there was no way a whole turkey could fit into the oven. The thought of eating chicken instead of turkey on Thanksgiving is blasphemous and almost haram, but we had no other choice. It was good, though. It’s the thought that counts.
We all had to draw Thanksgiving pictures like we did back in kindergarten. I traced my left hand and turned the outline into a turkey. A ver:
I wanna show it to my mommy when I get back home.
Good people, good times, and most importantly, chicken tikka masala wings.
My friend Dan, an American studying in Buenos Aires, accidentally sent this e-mail yesterday to our public policy teaching assistant, who teaches the discussion section of the course:
Hey,
Ok, so I’m guessing we’re presenting on Thursday, so we need to get prepared. I***** hasn’t replied to my e-mail where I asked her when we’re presenting (I’ve sent her a total of three e-mails this semester, and she has yet to answer one). Can you e-mail her to confirm?
The Huntington reading is 38 pages long. I suggest we split it up into two parts: I’ll do 92-111, and you do 111-30 (or vice-versa, if you want). Both of us should definitely read everything, but this is just that so one of us can focus on a particular section.
Let’s meet Wednesday afternoon to get everything together. Does that work for you?
- Hasan
PS - Ugh, and we have that project. We definitely have to get started next weekend. Can you e-mail and ask her if our topic is okay and if we can write the paper in English? Explain to her that all the sources are in English and that we’re really busy and writing in English would be much easier for us. I would write to her, but she never responds.
He did what I asked and e-mailed the teacher with my questions. The thing is, he replied to my e-mail to contact her while BCCing it to me and forgot to delete what I said! Crap. You know how when you reply to e-mails it shows the past messages? We don’t know if she saw my comments about how she never responds to my e-mails and my lack of desire to do the project (”Ugh, and we have that project”). Maybe we’ll find out tomorrow in class.
The teacher responded to Dan’s e-mail in less than twenty minutes (and why did she not answer mine, even though I sent it six days ago?) and answered our questions: yes, we are presenting the Samuel P. Huntington reading tomorrow, and yes, we can write our paper in English. However, she CCed the e-mail to the twenty-four people in the class (wait, I thought there were only twenty—maybe the others dropped but still remain on the mailing list), which means everyone could have read it. And everyone, including the teacher, knows English, so they surely have the ability to read my words.
Oh well. Dan, the other two Americans in our class, and I had a good laugh over the fiasco over lunch today. It could be worse. All I said was that the teacher never responds to my e-mails. Nothing bad. At least I didn’t call her a bitch or anything.
We couldn’t figure out why she responded to our e-mail by sending it to the entire class when it doesn’t pertain to them. We theorized that she wanted to prove to everyone that she does indeed respond to e-mails.
After nearly two weeks of dark days and cold rain showers, the weather’s finally clearing up and getting warmer. I don’t have a thermometer built into my brain, but I’m guessing the high was 65 °F or so. Pretty flippin’ sweet.
Thousands of high school and college students and probably some junior high kids too were out and about for Día del Estudiante, or Student Day, which is held every twenty-first of September, the first day of spring. With no classes, they were swarming the sidewalks in large droves, walking towards the nearest parks to hang out with their friends and possibly get drunk and/or high. Some snack vendors were out, and I saw a reggae band performing. Interestingly, reggae seems fairly popular down here. What’s more interesting is that you see a lot of Rasta-looking white guys with dreadlocks.
Two of my friends and I took a quick stroll through Bosques de Palermo, a big park full of trees, bushes, lakes, and other goodies. Since we’re American, we spoke English to each other, which draws attention here, especially when it’s spoken by two Bangladeshis and a black girl–you know, all Americans have blond hair and blue eyes. My friends, both Muslims and hijabis, tend to draw a lot of attention since there are very few blacks, desis, and women that cover their hair in Argentina. A group of three or four guys in their late teens or early twenties was walking behind us, staring and grinning. One of them kept saying to his buddies “A ver” (”let’s take a look”). Then they started saying stuff like “I love you” and “welcome Argentina” in their very limited English to my friends. Then I turned around and said “Hablamos castellano también” (”We speak Spanish too”) just to show them that we understood everything they were saying when they spoke among themselves. And then one of them said “te quiero” (”I love you”) to the girls. Ha ha ha ha ha. And then they offered them beer since they were walking around with at least one bottle of Quilmes. Fortunately, they drifted away after following us for a few minutes.
Argentine guys are so bold. How did they know I wasn’t with either of the girls? You hardly find guys in the US that are brave enough to say stuff like that to random girls, especially when they’re with other guys. Yes, they were probably drunk, but many Argentine guys do stuff like that when they’re sober. They often give random girls piropos, or flirtatious comments, even when they’re with a dude. They range from sweet to really vulgar and everything in between. You know what they call really vulgar piropos back where I’m from? Sexual harassment.
Luckily, I’m a guy and don’t have to deal with creepy men. Ugh, creepy guys ruin everything for the non-creepy ones like me. Why are so many guys like that throughout the world? Creepiness among men transcends nationality, race, religion, ethnicity, politics, and economics. I hope it’s not genetic.
A little video I took:
It got a bit racier a few minutes afterwards. The guy that pulled his shirt over his head pulled down his shorts and boxers and almost showed his, uh, yeah…
What a wonderful way to celebrate the beginning of spring.
