Coffee and Quehaceres

Picture yourself in a courtyard, oceans of violets in bloom. Now picture yourself in the Movistar cell phone service headquarters: a three-story building marked by a Martian green M and filled with turnstiles of people. It’s something like a bank combined with the DMV, with a little Kafka thrown in for good measure. But in the end, dare I say it, it was surprisingly efficient. You walk through the revolving door. Upon doing so, I realize Leandro gave me no real instruction besides, “I know what happened to your phone; the same thing happened to me when I got back from Chile last year. Go to the Movistar office on Florida and Corrientes.” So I decide the magic word must be “Chile.” I am greeted by a lady dressed in black, the uniform of choice among those in the Argentine service industry. “Hola. Buenas tardes. Tengo un teléfono de los Estados Unidos, pero es desbloqueado y compre el chip acá en Buenos Aires. Fui a Chile y después de regresar no puedo mandar textos.” I tell her. “¿Tu teléfono esta desbloqueado?” She corrects my grammar. One mistake. Apparently being unlocked is a state of being, not a description. Sorry 8th grade Spanish. So she sends me to another line, where I am greeted by two snippy girls in the same black uniform. I tell them my spiel, this time correcting my grammar. Which, I’m actually glad she did; but it’s not like she couldn’t understand me. So then they send me to the line, which is not very long, but not before asking me “You cannot send text messages to Chile?” “No, I can’t send them to anyone.” This seems to calm them down a bit, since Chileans and Argentines have a deep-rooted hatred springing from border disputes on land that is uninhabited, but I guess everyone wants to claim the southernmost part of the world. (At this point, I should've realized "Chile" was not the magic word.) So from that line I am called forward. “¿Quién sigue?” Is another good-to-know phrase in Buenos Aires; basically it means “Next!” I explain the problem to the man at the computer, hand him my phone and a card from the kiosko with my number written down on it. You’d think I’d remember it, but when one grows used to giving out fake numbers, one tends to forget her real number. He asks me if I had problems before Chile; I say no. He takes down my name, types it into a computer with my number, which apparently belongs to some man with a long name, since I bought it at a locutorio. He asks for my last name, and when I tell it to him, he decides that “Meg” will suffice. I don’t get it, it’s only five letters; but I suppose it is hard to pronounce. So I am told to wait in this sitting area until my name pops up on the screen and I will be directed to a “box.” The word “box” is used for a booth at a restaurant, and I find that humorous. You have to say it with an Argentine accent. But apparently a “box” can be a - what would you call it, a stall? - too. Kinda like the Apple “Genius Bar,” but they don’t make you feel like quite the idiot (even though you’re not a native speaker of their language.)
I feared I would be told to join the ranks on the white chairs that snaked around numbered booths and flat-screened TVs. I was hoping maybe they were paying their bills. But no, it seems we all have cell-phone problems. Luckily I had brought my book, The Poisonwood Bible, and I was able to delve in where I left off on the subway (it’s easy to read on the subway when your stop is the very last one on the route.) But only minutes later, my name pops up on the screen, the shortest name by far, and directs me to Box 38. Perhaps my name sounded exotic, or perhaps they knew my problem was easy to fix; but I cut in front of so many people who had been waiting.
Daniel helps me. I tell him my problem, that upon returning from Chile I can’t send text messages. “To Chile?” “No, to anyone.” I hand him my phone; it is set in English. I tell him I can change it to Spanish if it makes it easier for him. His eyes say “yes please” so I do. He asks me where I am from. “The United States.” “What part?” “Texas.” “What are you doing here?” “Traveling.” “Why?” “To travel. Because I studied Spanish in college and never studied abroad so I wanted to practice my Spanish.” He asks me if I’ve traveled a lot while here. “No, not really. Just Chile.” “Did you like it?” “No, Buenos Aires is much better.” “The people? The culture?” “Everything,” I tell him. And I can see his face light up. He reconfigures my phone and sends a test text to his phone. Sneaky little way to get my number, Daniel. And that was that. Phone is fixed. Overwhelming process but over all didn’t take too long. Well, except for the part when I walked the wrong way for three blocks, but even then it made my day because these three young punk girls said some snarky comment to these two girls who walked ahead of me. Made a comment about her “culo,” which suffice it to say, means her “tail.” Then they barked at her in broken English “What your name?” and she hissed back “Español.” I took that to mean I looked less foreign than this burgundy-redheaded girl in tight jeans, which made me pretty excited. And not at all upset that I had just added six blocks to my walking route.

It seems like I’ve been starting my days later, but I feel like I have plenty to do around the house: wash the dishes, e-mail my parents, keep up with UT communications, print out new itineraries. It’s as if I actually lived here. Tried Havanna’s café con leche today. Mmm, delicious. I’m trying to start living on the cheap these days, so I can afford more travel. But I can’t deny myself my coffee ritual, it’s part of the reason I’m here. I just won’t order food with my coffee. But okay, okay, I can eat the galletita they serve with it. Or unless it’s lunchtime. But here, coffee is drunk with breakfast or by itself, perhaps with a pastry. Never with a meal. I don’t know how recovering alcoholics would cope in this country. I guess you can have it after dinner, but I’ve never seen decaf on the menu. I’ve been taking things slower, now that I have more time to enjoy South America. I’m not moving at a break-neck pace, although my back and neck are still a bit stiff. I can’t wait to hit up the YMCA in June. Perhaps the day I get back. Yoga classes would be over by then, my flight doesn’t leave Houston until 10 am. I figured I’d give myself plenty of time for customs and readjustments to Texas. Make some phone calls, drink some Starbucks. When I get home, I’ll want a nap. But first some hugs and kisses from Mom and Daddy (When you give a mouse a cookie…) And fish tacos from Taco Diner. And queso. I haven’t seen anything close to resembling chile con queso here. And hummus. Either from Ziziki’s or Cosmic Café. I could do without pizza for a while. And sweets. And spending money, ha…

Oh, and I bought groceries today, and let me tell you, it's kind of funny to see Goldfish in the foreign foods section.