Rosario, Rosario, where for art thou Rosario?
The city where Che Guevara was born. Now we're talking.
Of course I haven't been to his house yet, but it's on the list.
I arrived late Friday night, weirdly homesick - just when you get used to a place you up and leave it, and everything gets scary and unknown again. The bus passed by the airport and I could see the American Airlines flight waiting on the tarmac to take off for New York - I came very close to leaping off the bus and making a run for it.
Pride kept me onboard, however, and the second I heard Belen's voice yelling for me in the Rosario bus station, I knew it was going to be alright.
She lives with her grandmother, Maria, the daughter of an Italian who has a habit of breaking into piercing streams of ranting Spanish (complete with the Argentine Italian accent) while stirring pots of steaming fideos. The themes of her rants are what you would imagine - it wasn't like this when I was young, young people today, my mother used to say to me, etc etc. She's a bit more brash than my own grandmothers - our first conversation was about the merits of casual sex versus love. I haven't had that discussion with Granny or Nana yet. Sure can't wait for it, though.
That first night Belen dragged me home and dumped about 40 photo albums in my lap to look through. Of all the pictures she has taken in her life, maybe 39 rolls were of Bermuda - the last roll was of a birthday party one year. As we went through them tons of memories came flooding back - setting up the hair salon in our kitchen, the terrible gingerbread cookies we tried to make with my sister at Christmas (with Papa's vigorous assistance), World Cup games in Flanagan's. The time Johnny S found Sheldon by the side of the road. My brother's brain-stabbing call to Chester: "Kittykittykittykittykitty!". A certain Rotary Exchange Students fan running through our kitchen in tears the night of the goodbye party. The birth of the Spontaneous Ice Queen Milkshake Runss/Moulin Rouge Singalongs. We'd also put on that stupid CD that Matty F and the rest of the herbalist crew had made for her and were laughing our asses off - though by the end when Matty "sang" about her father and mother, two sisters and two brothers who would never forget her, I'm ashamed to admit we both got a little teary.
Every night in our twin beds in her room we read our books - she's reading Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones; I'm reading Famous Five go off in a caravan - Latin American version. Los Cinco en la caravana. Any excuse to go back to Enid Blyton. Every ten minutes or so she asks me what a word means (usually I don't actually know), every 30 seconds or so I ask her what a word means (usually she can't explain it). We wake up late every morning because her classes don't start til around 5pm. To my never-ending dismay Argentines are not big on breakfast (get your butt to Robin Hood right now, IG), so we have coffee and a snack of sorts then head out in to the world. We split up when it's time for school, and meet back at her house around 10 or 11 at night, in time to make dinner and read again while listening to Maria discuss the state of the world.
It's a very cozy life.
Of course I haven't been to his house yet, but it's on the list.
I arrived late Friday night, weirdly homesick - just when you get used to a place you up and leave it, and everything gets scary and unknown again. The bus passed by the airport and I could see the American Airlines flight waiting on the tarmac to take off for New York - I came very close to leaping off the bus and making a run for it.
Pride kept me onboard, however, and the second I heard Belen's voice yelling for me in the Rosario bus station, I knew it was going to be alright.
She lives with her grandmother, Maria, the daughter of an Italian who has a habit of breaking into piercing streams of ranting Spanish (complete with the Argentine Italian accent) while stirring pots of steaming fideos. The themes of her rants are what you would imagine - it wasn't like this when I was young, young people today, my mother used to say to me, etc etc. She's a bit more brash than my own grandmothers - our first conversation was about the merits of casual sex versus love. I haven't had that discussion with Granny or Nana yet. Sure can't wait for it, though.
That first night Belen dragged me home and dumped about 40 photo albums in my lap to look through. Of all the pictures she has taken in her life, maybe 39 rolls were of Bermuda - the last roll was of a birthday party one year. As we went through them tons of memories came flooding back - setting up the hair salon in our kitchen, the terrible gingerbread cookies we tried to make with my sister at Christmas (with Papa's vigorous assistance), World Cup games in Flanagan's. The time Johnny S found Sheldon by the side of the road. My brother's brain-stabbing call to Chester: "Kittykittykittykittykitty!". A certain Rotary Exchange Students fan running through our kitchen in tears the night of the goodbye party. The birth of the Spontaneous Ice Queen Milkshake Runss/Moulin Rouge Singalongs. We'd also put on that stupid CD that Matty F and the rest of the herbalist crew had made for her and were laughing our asses off - though by the end when Matty "sang" about her father and mother, two sisters and two brothers who would never forget her, I'm ashamed to admit we both got a little teary.
Every night in our twin beds in her room we read our books - she's reading Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones; I'm reading Famous Five go off in a caravan - Latin American version. Los Cinco en la caravana. Any excuse to go back to Enid Blyton. Every ten minutes or so she asks me what a word means (usually I don't actually know), every 30 seconds or so I ask her what a word means (usually she can't explain it). We wake up late every morning because her classes don't start til around 5pm. To my never-ending dismay Argentines are not big on breakfast (get your butt to Robin Hood right now, IG), so we have coffee and a snack of sorts then head out in to the world. We split up when it's time for school, and meet back at her house around 10 or 11 at night, in time to make dinner and read again while listening to Maria discuss the state of the world.
It's a very cozy life.
posted by SarahT at 4:33 pm
3 Comments:
Oi Sweetie,
This sounds so great. It sounds like you are having such a rich experience.
Chat soon,
Field Trip Chick
Belen must be so happy to have a sister right now! Reading books and chatting. Fun! Are you at least speaking to each other in Spanish or is she still insisting on practicing her English? Ah, what the hell, you're learning so much anyway :-) Have fun!
Long ago she and I developed this weird kind of Spanglish where she talks to me in English inserting Spanish wherever she doesn't know the word and I do the reverse to her. So now I can read, write, and get lots of practice talking Spanish, but I still have no idea what anyone is saying when they talk to me, especially as of course all her friends speak mad English too. I give up!
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