Studying abroad has affected me in several ways. First and most obviously, my Spanish language ability skyrocketed during my time abroad. I was a low-intermediate speaker when I arrived in Buenos Aires, and when I returned last summer I was close to proficient. In an effort to maintain my Spanish, I took a course on Gaucho literature last fall and am currently taking a class called Spanish for Bilingual Students. Both classes were initially daunting since almost all my classmates are native speakers, unlike me, but I was definitely up for the challenge after my time abroad. I’m also completing a teaching certificate in TESOL, tutoring an international student in English, and taking a Methods of Teaching ESL class this semester. I wrote a piece on Argentine food for the culinary magazine where I intern, saw a play from a troupe of Argentine actors (Gente de Teatro) just last weekend, and have kept up with a couple of my closest porteño friends – so Argentina is still a part of my life today.

I’m graduating from Rice in a month. It’s a stressful and tumultuous time, and my future is uncertain. I’m living the classic “what do you do with a B.A. in English?” cliché. I’ve always strived to be a focused person with a plan, and this is the first time in my life that there hasn’t been a clear roadmap in front of me. None of the obvious paths to professional or graduate school seem to fit my skills and interests, at least not yet. I have a thirst for learning and I think I will probably return to grad school eventually, but for now I am seeking work in publications, nonprofits, or teaching ESL. I’m still in the application process for several jobs and fellowships (including one to teach English in Spain) and I don’t know where the cards will fall, but I do believe that my Spanish ability will be an asset whatever I do.

To anyone considering study abroad, I give the typical advice – just go! It will not always be easy, but that’s the point – to challenge yourself by doing something off the beaten path. You are incredibly privileged to have this opportunity, so make the most of it.

I can’t help but identify with him a little. I’ve been wandering around too, unsure of what to do with myself.

Before leaving Argentina, I didn’t think much about reverse culture shock. I vaguely remembered hearing something about it at IES during orientation, but adjusting to life in Argentina was easy, so why would returning be any different? Boy, was I wrong. I’ve been back for exactly one week, and I’ve been a complete mess. I still don’t feel like myself. I’ve been irritable, moody, weepy, and just downright confused. Going to the grocery store, driving–seemingly basic tasks are somehow challenging, and I feel like I’m screwing things up constantly. Adding to that, there’s only a month until school starts, and I’m nervous about making the right choices for my future. None of this feels normal, but everyone tells me that it is…so I guess for now my plan is to wait it out while trying hard to focus on the positive things. I have lots of great memories and photos from Argentina, supportive friends and family here, and coping strategies like music and exercise. And everything gets easier with time. In two weeks, I’m going home to visit family and enjoy the last little bit of summer (summer, not winter, as I sometimes have to remind myself), and I know by then I’ll be doing better.

This isn’t to scare off any future study abroad students. Everyone experiences this stuff differently, and some people adjust faster than others.

One difference I’ve been thinking about is that when you live in a place where you have to communicate in a second language, every interaction is an exciting chance to prove yourself.  For example, I would get a lot of happiness from brief chats with the woman who worked at the produce store in my Buenos Aires neighborhood. She always had a smile that seemed reserved just for me, and she’d ask how I was doing as she weighed my fruit. Nothing much, but it kind of was, somehow. And if our conversations had been in English, they wouldn’t have seemed nearly as special.

So maybe the idea of study abroad is that it puts you in this place of constant learning, even if you don’t realize it at the time, and then you return to “Real Life,” find it completely lacking without that sense of daily challenge, and force yourself to seek out new ways to try to recreate it.  So that’s my plan for now, to work on putting this into perspective.

This is my last post–it’s been fun writing these, and I hope they helped! If you have any questions about study abroad, IES, Argentina, traveling, being a confused English major, whatever, you can always email me at rcahalan@gmail.com.

I have so many stories from Peru that it’s hard to pick just one to tell here. But when I really think about it, the thing I learned most from that trip was the value of spontaneity. In a trip that was so carefully scheduled (all the credit goes to Carina’s mom and her savy travel skills), some of my favorite moments were those that weren’t part of the plan. One day in particular was full of surprises.

After finishing our hike in the morning, we had a few hours to kill in a little town called Ollantaytambo, from where we would take a train to Aguas Calientes (the jumping-off point for seeing Macchu Picchu). Spectacular Incan ruins overlook the town, but after days of mountain hiking we were sore, smelly, and sunburned, with no interest in climbing them. Instead, we agreed immediately that a leisurely afternoon in a café was in order.

For some reason we settled on one called “Quechua Blues Café,” a dark old building with some animal-pelt draped benches outside. It was just opening as we arrived, but the dazed-looking barman waved us in. He took our orders and began blasting blues on the stereo, first a classic red-hot electric riff, and then when the vocals came in we realized they actually were in Quechua (the indigenous language widely spoken in Peru). Some of the songs were covers of famous American blues, and it was fun to try to figure them out without the English lyrics.

Carina and I wanted to get a copy of the album for our college radio station, KTRU, because electric blues sung in an indigenous Peruvian language is exactly the sort of bizarre thing that belongs on college radio.  The barman told us where we could buy a copy in Cusco, but we weren’t going to have time to look for it there. Was there any other way we could get the CD? He stood quiet for a moment, scratching his head, and blinking his oddly cloudy eyes. His movements were slow and languid, like he had either done a lot of drugs in the past or was simply a very calm person. Then he offered to run home and sell us his own personal copy. We felt hesitant about this—surely it was worth a lot to him?—but before we could respond he set off down the street, leaving us alone in the café as a Peruvian version of  “House of the Rising Sun” blasted out onto the cobblestone street, attracting stares from passers-by, Peruvians and tourists alike. About twenty minutes later, he returned with a tattered case, and we bought it for 20 soles (about seven dollars).

We said goodbye to our blues cafe friend and walked around Ollantaytambo. In one street we came across a mixed group of people—tourists in expensive hiking clothes and Peruvian kids in shorts and t-shirts—staring at something open-mouthed. At first glance it appeared to be a shaggy mongrel dog, nothing special about it. Then we realized there was a tiny monkey riding the dog’s back, little fists clinging to his fur.  It was incredibly cute. It turned out the monkey was the pet of a little girl whose parents owned a restaurant, and we ended up eating a tasty meal there (which cost, absurdly, less than $2 US a person) while watching the animals. The monkey would alternate between peacefully riding the dog and play-fighting with him, the two biting and swatting at each other in a flurry of jaws and tails. The little girl watched on in glee, shouting to the monkey, “Kill the dog! Kill the dog!”  I chatted with her mother, who told me that since her husband got the monkey as a gift for his daughter, business in their restaurant has increased dramatically. The unlikely pair draws a crowd wherever they go, and more often than not that crowd follows them back to the restaurant for food and human companionship.

So that was a strange, wonderful day in Peru.

The Slate writer explains that regardless of actual monetary value, coins are psychologically worth more than bills because they are so hard to come by. This is definitely something I experience daily, as are exasperated sighs—and often outright refusal to make a sale if it requires change—from cashiers. The other day, I spent twenty minutes going from kiosk to kiosk doing exactly what Keohane describes in his article: trying to buy a 2-peso candy bar with a 5-peso note to get change to ride the bus. The first two clerks frowned and shook their heads when they realized what I was up to, but the third took pity on me and handed over that precious one-peso coin with a 2-peso bill. On the bus, I gleefully ate the candy bar and wondered if the shortage will also lead to a slight rise in the national averages for weight, since buying the junk food sold at kiosks is one of the most common strategies for getting monedas. I know, I know, that’s a bit too ridiculous. However, so is the fact that one of my Argentine friends has some sort of sketchy arrangement with a friend who works in a bank and occasionally helps him get large sums of coins.

The New Yorker piece draws an analogy between the coin shortage and the U.S. credit crisis, saying that both demonstrate the “irreducible psychological dimension to both crises and recoveries”: basically, that a lack of faith in the economy breeds more instability, while trust is required to rebuild a solid system. As both articles note, it’s hardly surprising that Argentines, the veterans of numerous failed governments and economic catastrophes, don’t have a lot of trust in the system. But I don’t think the New Yorker is quite right to call the moneda problem a panic. “Profound skepticism,” yes, but not panic. A popular saying here is “Es lo que hay,” meaning “It’s what there is,” and I think it’s a fairly telling summation of the resilient, come-what-may attitude that Argentines have adopted to deal with these sorts of daily inconveniences. Demonstrations and strikes can hold up traffic, the air pollution makes you cough, sometimes you step in dog crap on the sidewalk, and it might require some strategizing to get the coins you need for your commute—but you’ll get them in the end. People here don’t panic about these things, because they’ve been through way, way worse. They just shrug, pass the mate, and say “es lo que hay.”

“¿Que rico, no?” (It’s delicious, right?)

Maria smiled at me as I bit into a piece of toast with dulce de leche, the national dessert of Argentina. It was my first breakfast in Buenos Aires, and my host sister couldn’t believe I had never tasted the sweet that Argentines worship with a fervor equaled only by their devotion to fútbol and the Catholic church.

“You have to try it!” she said, doling out an alarming quantity of the gooey spread. “Delicious” was not quite the first word that came to mind. Instead, my initial reaction was shock: how could anything taste so impossibly sweet? I could almost feel my teeth crying out in protest. Dulce de leche is like caramel on steroids: thicker, creamier, and intensely sugary. Argentines slather it on everything—bread, fruit, pastries, chocolates, ice cream. Or they just eat it by the spoonful. At first I didn’t quite get its appeal, but I also believe that cultural immersion starts with your taste buds. So I told Maria sí, muy rico, and reached for more.

Buenos Aires is home to 13 million people and—or so it seemed to me as I explored its bustling streets—almost as many restaurants and cafes. For the first month, I floated on a cloud of culinary euphoria. I discovered empanadas, little baked hot pockets stuffed with meat and cheese. One is a snack and three is a meal, a warm treat on a chilly afternoon between classes. I gaped in wonder at the thirty-plus flavors in the ice cream shops on every corner, falling for the poetry of names like frutilla con nueces and sambayón a la crema. At first I was impatient with waiters who come by every half hour and never bring the check until you ask, but I learned to savor the stillness after a meal when conversation ebbs and flows for hours over coffee cups. And don’t get me started on the wine, especially the famous Malbecs with their strong oak flavors. I’m not much of a wine snob, but even I can take a sip of a Malbec and just think about it for a while.

However, my love affair with Argentine food progressed like any other romance: after infatuation came a gradual discovery of faults I had previously ignored. The scarcity of vegetables, the puzzling tendency to put mayonnaise on everything, and the lack of anything spicy all got on my nerves. I fantasized about my favorite Houston foods: spring rolls from Mai’s, the black bean burger at Hobbit Cafe, milkshakes at 59 Diner, 2 a.m. pickles and coleslaw from Katz’s. But the absolute worst, the one thing I could not live without, was the simplest: peanut butter.

Peanut butter hasn’t caught on in South America. Still, I looked for it every time I went in a grocery store, only to find aisles of dulce de leche. Friendly clerks would suggest I try Nutella or tahini instead, but only the real thing could satiate my craving. Some of my American classmates, similarly afflicted, tracked down expensive imported peanut butter. We were like drug addicts sharing a hookup: “They’ve got the goods on the corner by the subway, hidden in the back of the International shelf. It’s creamy, high-quality stuff.”

When my boyfriend bought a ticket to visit me, I begged him for a jar of Jif. I daydreamed in class: the two of us cuddling in the park, gazing deep into each other’s eyes…and eating a PB&J.  In the end, he packed it in his carry-on luggage, where it was promptly confiscated by airport security (apparently, it’s classified as a liquid).

I did manage to find one small, precious jar. One day, my American roommate and I were relishing it with apple slices when Sofia, my other Argentine host sister, stopped by. She’d never tasted peanut butter, and we insisted she try it. She chewed slowly and hesitantly. A look of surprise and confusion dawned on her face, and in it I saw myself, trying Maria’s dulce de leche that first morning. “Well?” I asked. “What do you think?” Sofia sat silent for a moment. “It’s…strange,” she said carefully. Then she smiled and reached for more.

We boarded the bus in Bariloche at noon, settling into the two best seats: the first row on the top level, with nothing but a huge window in front. Oddly, there was only one other passenger on the whole double-decker bus (tip: visiting Patagonia in the chilly off-season has its advantages), so we had the place to ourselves. As we left the quaint streets of Bariloche behind, I was already starting to miss it. Bariloche was my favorite of the Argentine towns I’ve visited so far. It’s small enough to be homey, but not boring; its economy is based on tourism, yet it didn’t feel fake, and the sunrises over the lake were so spectacular that we woke early every morning just to stare out the window of our hostel in awe. The bittersweet thing about traveling is that the more places you fall in love with, the more you have to leave.

The narrow two-lane road—“highway” seems too generous a term, though I guess that’s technically what it was—carried us into the mountains: big majestic peaks saturated with jewel-toned fall colors, aglow with amber and gold and chestnut, all paired with placid lakes so blue it almost hurt to look at them.
All this natural splendor was, hilariously, accompanied by some of the cheesiest music videos the 1980s had to offer. It’s common on buses here to show homemade music videos collections on the overhead TVs. My personal favorite was Jon Bon Jovi’s “In a Blaze of Glory,” in which, in case you’re not familiar with this true gem of musical history, Bon Jovi performs—shirtless, long-haired, dripping with sheer testosterone—on the edge of a canyon while a drive-in movie theater (also improbably placed on the rim of the canyon) goes down in flames. Carina made the best of things by pointing out that for the rest of our lives, whenever we hear that awful song, we’ll think of gorgeous Patagonia.

After the music videos ended, we were treated to one of those puerile Adam Sandler comedies (he has really gone downhill since Caddyshack and Happy Gilmore, which, while puerile, had their moments). Usually on busses here I really enjoy watching the movies because they are both dubbed and subtitled in Spanish, but clearly by two different translators, making it fun and educational to see the different expressions the translators chose. But this one was just too awful, so I threw my jacket over the screen and gazed out at the landscape. It was fascinating to watch it change: first big mountains and lakes, then smaller mountains and shrubs. We occasionally passed people crouched by the side of the road picking Calafate berries, which are used in jams and sweets. The legend is that if you eat something containing them, you’ll return to the South some day. Other than the berry-pickers, we would pass another car maybe every hour or two, allowing the bus to drive on the wrong side of the road, avoiding potholes, for long stretches.

I’ve never been able to read in a car or bus without getting nauseous, so I spent a lot of time just staring out the window and listening to music and podcasts. It struck me as the kind of situation in which I should be doing a lot of deep, existential thinking, but I couldn’t really come up with anything. Mainly I spent a lot of time silently panicking about what I should do after college, like any good English major does. I was kind of hoping going to Argentina would somehow endow me with a grand life purpose, but I don’t know that it really has. But hey, my Spanish is a lot better, so that’s got to be worth something.

We stopped for dinner at a tiny restaurant in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Carina and I had a pizza at one table while the bus driver and attendant ate at another. They left the bus engine running for the entire hour we were stopped—why? Back on the bus, the attendant let us choose a movie from his personal pirated DVD collection. Almost every disc was marked with his comment that it was “MUY BUENA.” We chose Babel and it was really riveting, although I would really like to read a critical analysis of its racial/socio-economic messages (everything works out well in the end for the rich white characters). Then there was nothing to do but sit in the darkness and wait for sleep.

We awoke in the morning to a wildly different landscape: the steppe, cold plains with lots of shrubs and guanacos, which are like miniature llamas. After another few hours, and a switch to another bus, we finally arrived in Calafate, ready to go see some glaciers. Overall, it wasn’t bad, though I hope it was the longest bus ride of my life.

Homestay vs. Apartment: I do wish I had researched this more, although I’m happy with how it turned out. I decided on a homestay pretty quickly: everyone said it was the best for language acquisition. Also, the idea of renting an apartment in a foreign country seemed daunting, so I didn’t look into it. Turns out it’s pretty easy and affordable (bytargentina.com is good). I figured that if I didn’t live in a homestay, I wouldn’t immerse myself enough in the language and culture, but in my case nearly all of that comes from Argentine friends rather than my homestay. On the other hand, it’s great that I live in a safe area close to IES, and meals are provided. A homestay doesn’t mean giving up independence, but it does require flexibility. My advice is to give this decision some thought and know that both are good options.

Classes: I would urge everyone to take at least one class at a partner Argentine university. When planning to go abroad, I assumed this wouldn’t be an option for me, since I had been learning Spanish for just under a year (well, plus some very basic high school classes). But I realized that years of experience matter a lot less than willingness to learn, and I’m so glad I took a linguistics and literature course at UMSA, although there were certainly times when it felt way over my head (such as our upcoming final exam…gulp).

Packing: Everyone says to pack light, but I didn’t (two big suitcases), and I don’t regret it. I don’t know that you can overpack for a semester-long stay, especially one with as dramatic a range of weather (deserts in the North, glaciers in the South) as exists in Argentina. Definitely bring a smaller duffle bag if you plan to travel.

Communication: It’s a lot cheaper to bring your cell phone and unlock it (get the code from your provider) than to buy one here. Some homestays have wifi and some don’t. A lot of cafes have it, too, but be careful using your laptop in public since theft does happen. Video chat is a lifesaver.

Food: Argentine food has its highs and lows. Steak and wine are the most famous, and dulce de leche (a caramel-like sweet spread) is worshipped with true fervor. The pizza is really creative: think unusual toppings like pumpkin and hearts of palm, and lots of cheese. The salads are—there’s no way around this—dismal, either some half-hearted lettuce and tomato or a bizarre combination of vegetables. (OK, that’s a little harsh, I’ve had good salad, you just have to hunt for it. There’s a wrap/veggie place called Pura Vida that is amazing.) Nothing is ever spicy, not even if it claims to be. The empanadas are amazing, and there are ice cream shops with 30+ flavors on almost every block. The Chinatown is small but thriving, and good sushi can be found too. Peanut butter is almost nonexistent, and I was surprised how much I missed it. Most restaurants will deliver (even coffee and ice cream!), and tipping is 10%. You have to buy bottled water in restaurants, so bring a reusable bottle if you can.

Getting around: Public transportation is excellent. The subte is pretty good, and the colectivos (buses), though initially confusing, can get you almost anywhere for $1.25, should you manage to collect the necessary monedas (coins): there’s a severe, absurd coin shortage that no one knows how to fix. Taxis are also affordable, but you should never hail one from the street for safety reasons; always call ahead. Tipping isn’t customary in taxis. For traveling around the country, long-haul buses are cheap and way more comfortable than in the US. I also had this stereotype of hostels as sketchy places, but they turn out to be awesome (use Hostelworld.com ratings when choosing hostels), and most have private rooms if you don’t want to bunk with strangers.

What else…oh, everyone kisses on the cheek, both when meeting people and greeting/saying goodbye to friends. It’s cute. Also, cats only have seven lives, not nine, and just today my Spanish teacher told me that some consider it good luck to call out to redheaded women on the street. That one explains a lot…

These are a few of the piropos (catcalls) I’ve heard in the streets of Buenos Aires. Piropos are one of the most immediately obvious cultural differences between North American and Latin American culture, especially if you happen to be female. In the U.S., it’s insulting to stare suggestively at a stranger, let alone shout out comments, but here it’s the norm. The vast majority of the time, piropos are completely harmless, and the caller doesn’t expect to receive eye contact, let alone a response.
I had heard a bit about this before coming to Argentina, but for my female friends and I, the daily reality definitely took some getting used to. Frequent whistles, jokes, comments, and lingering stares really made me uncomfortable at first, especially when walking alone. But after two months, piropos now seem like any other part of the bustling city. Honking cars and swerving taxis, ice cream vendors hawking their wares with cries of “heladoooo!”, music filtering through open windows…and men whose gaze lingers on me for a moment in passing, sometimes whistling or asking “¿Querés tomar un café?” (Want to get a coffee?). It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing or what you look like, if you’re female and relatively young, you’re going to get piropos, and they aren’t anything to freak out about.

I do still notice the more creative ones, such as the rather literal guy who simply shouted the word “Piropo!” And today when I was rushing to class, I passed a man on the sidewalk whistling a pop song to himself. Without a pause in the song, he seamlessly inserted a catcall whistle (you know the one I mean: a high pitch and then a low one, whooo-woo) and then went right back to the song. That wasn’t unusual by itself—in fact, it demonstrates how common, almost subconscious, the piropo is. The weird thing was that less than a minute later the next guy I passed was whistling a different song and he did the exact same thing. What the heck! I felt a bit like an ecologist observing the evolution of a new birdcall in the jungle.

When I ask myself how living in Buenos Aires has changed me, the way I respond to piropos—and in a larger sense, the way I carry myself in public overall—is one of the easiest things to point out. My level of awareness on the street has really increased, especially when alone. While I don’t mean to imply that Buenos Aires is any more dangerous than other big world cities, it is a huge change from my tranquil little college campus in the U.S., and I feel so much more ready for anything here, just because it’s a reality. I’m always aware of how I’m holding my bag or purse, how confidently I’m walking, what messages my facial expression and body language are sending. It’s not that I’m antsy—in fact, I feel a lot more comfortable. Shortly before I came to Argentina, I had a little scare one night in Houston when I was fumbling for the keys to my apartment and a man was following me. I got inside when he was steps away, and I realized that I had no idea what I would’ve done if that door hadn’t opened. Nothing scary like that has ever happened to me here, and I don’t worry about it, but I just feel more aware. Maybe that’s common sense, but I guess I needed to come to Argentina to figure that out.

The story of the Difunta (deceased) Correa is undeniably strange: in 1840, a young mother named Deolinda Correa and her infant were lost in the desert while searching for her husband, who took ill after being forced to fight in a civil war. Deolinda died of thirst, but a group of traveling gauchos found her baby alive a few days later, still nursing from her body. The infant’s survival was deemed the first of the deceased mother’s miracles, and her powers grew along with her popularity. Today the shrine is a series of chapels where visitors can see every imaginable type of symbolic object brought by believers in thanks for answered prayers: miniature wooden houses, license plates from new cars, medicine bottles no longer needed, and much more. My favorite was “Las Camisas de las Novias” (girlfriends’ shirts), where grateful fiancées and newlyweds bring an item of their girlfriends’ clothing to thank the saint. (I wonder what the girlfriends have to say about this tradition.) Above all the chapels crammed with objects, a staircase decorated with license plates and ribbons leads to a statue of the Difunta herself, perpetually nursing her child even in death. A candelabra where visitors can light a candle in prayer is right next to the statue.

The thing that really struck me about the Difunta was its bizarre mix of materialism and faith. The site is a bustling tourist attraction, and everything it sells is emblazoned with a Difunta-themed message: keychains, ribbons to hang in your car that say “Thanks Difunta for protecting my Mercedes,” plastic rosaries, snacks, and piles of other kitschy items. But the statue and the candelabra where people kneel and cross themselves are only a few steps away. I’d never seen so close a connection between reverence and, well, sheer piles of stuff, so when I got back to Buenos Aires I decided to do some research for a class project.

What I found was fascinating. The Catholic Church refuses to recognize the Difunta, although most of her believers identify as Catholics (80% of Argentines do). So she occupies a murky space somewhere in between paganism and Catholicism, as do other popular saints, such as Gauchito Gil, who has his own complex history. It’s clear that these myths borrow many elements from Christian tradition—sacrifice, maternal power, a miraculous child—but anthropologists also believe that they subtly reflect indigenous traditions. For example, one connection is with the Incan goddess Pachamama (also called Earth Mother or Gaia), a fertility symbol who, like the Difunta, gains power even in death. This explanation fits well with Argentina’s ethnic history: indigenous traditions have been almost entirely suppressed or assimilated in this country, which with a 1.6% indigenous population has the fewest native peoples of any South American state. Simply put, the vast majority was killed during colonial wars, and Spanish conquistadors were quick to replace pagan and native traditions with Catholic ideology. But if you look closely, vestiges of native traditions still remain, and the modern devotion to popular saints is one of those. Sure, in the US the Virgin Mary occasionally shows herself on burned toast, and there’s the odd lake with healing waters, but for us these stories always have a hokey sideshow feel—nothing like the weight that popular saints have in Argentina. Every other car sports a red Difunta ribbon, plastic bottle shrines (to quench the Difunta’s eternal thirst) are a common sight along the highways, and Buenos Aires is filled with little shops called santerías that sell religious paraphernalia. My group for the IES documentary class is hoping to focus our project around this theme, so this probably isn’t the last you’ll hear from me about popular saints.

Actually, it appears we may be doing just that. It’s almost 6:00 and neither the 4:30 nor the 5:30 bus back to the city has arrived, despite the confident assurance of both a previous bus driver and a tourism office employee that it runs every hour. Even a man who lives in a house by the bus stop has emerged to tell us “Paciencia, paciencia,” that surely a bus will arrive soon. First he says there will be one in five minutes. Then he says half an hour. Finally he says that well, since it’s Sunday, there might not actually be a schedule at all, grinning as if to say “You silly Americans need to relax.” But we have to pack and check out of our hostel before heading to the bus station, and missing that bus would mean losing an expensive ticket and missing classes the next day. Taxis don’t come out this far, so the bus is our only option. I knew time was more fluid here than in the U.S., but I didn’t know it was this fluid. I’ll never place all my trust in a bus schedule again.

We’re getting desperate, so my friend calls the overnight bus company to ask if they can hold the bus for us (no more than five minutes, they say), and I do something that my parents, IES staff, various horror stories, and plain common sense have all told me I should never do: start flagging down passing cars to ask if they’ll take two naïve American hitchhikers. I already know how not to do it, since earlier in the day we’d made a weak attempt to ask people for directions to the ranch where we went horseback riding. That time we’d simply waved, and the people in the cars had smiled and waved back: lovely day, isn’t it! This time I stick out my thumb, feeling like some sort of youthful bohemian cliché, and start asking people if they’re going to the city. An older couple in the second car look sympathetic, but they aren’t going in the right direction, so I thank them anyway and back away. But then our “paciencia” friend tells them something too rapidly for me to understand, and they take pity on us. And like everyone I’ve met in Argentina, they are incredibly friendly, chatting with us about our travels and the basics of Argentine history, even driving by the house of Jose Sarmiento so we can see the historical building from the car. They drop us off right at the hostel—we thank them with a bag of fresh grapes that a farmer had given us—and we make the Buenos Aires bus with a few minutes to spare, having learned an important lesson (though one I hope not to repeat) about back-up plans and the kindness of strangers.

Here are a couple photos – the first is the road where we were stuck (not a bad spot to spend a few hours waiting, really), and the second of my friend Carina and I in Valle de la Luna, an amazing canyon in San Juan Province.