SUP HOMIES.  So I’ve been neglecting my tumblr because I am:


a) Too busy to blog
b) Too lazy to blog
c) Eating an alfajor

I’ll eventually update all my faithful readers (i.e. Mom, Dad, and Phoebe) about my trip to Iguazú Falls last weekend.  It was so incredible, google image it now and don’t be upset if your soul shrivels up in jealousy.  

This week for Mítos class we had to watch Amores Perros.  A fantastic movie, it was incredibly violent and sad.  The reason I’m mentioning it is because I’ve realized that I get a sick, twisted pleasure out of watching Gael García Bernal cry.  I am a deeply disturbed individual.    

This week the MALBA (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires) had an exposition on Brazilian film so last night all the NYU film classes were required to attend a discussion with this very famous film studies professor (so famous that I forgot his name) where we learned about different Brazilian documentaries, their critiques on the Brazilian government and prison system, etc.  

Afterward there was wine and guess who was there?  Only our favorite tantalizingly gorgeous Argentine professor!  He sauntered over to me and Rachel and was like, “Chicas, ¿por qué toman vino?  ¡Ustedes son tan jovenes!” (Girls, why are you drinking wine?  You guys are so young!) and he told us that we thought we were 18.  I was like, “Oh, you confused dapper man, I’m 20, which is two years above the legal age of consent so if you wanna go somewhere…you know…dále…”  As we were leaving, Rachel and I walked past him getting on his bike and said bye then did our secret finger-wiggle-handshake while we said “Dáleeeeee” in regards to our successful professor encounter only have him ride past us and give us a very awkward and confused look that clearly meant “Girls are crazy, I’m so glad I’m gay and I will continue to torture the female population with my intense beauty on a daily basis.”

Rachel and I walked back to Recoleta where we went to Cumaná for dinner.  BEST EMPANADAS IN THE CITY.  Don’t try to argue.  Phoebe and Kaarin met up with us there and we unfortunately decided on going to the Alamo, known in some circles as the worst, most-Americanized bar in the world.  Each time I’ve gone it’s been a complete disaster and it lived up to my expectations again this time.  We decided to create fake identities, so I became Marisol from Bogotá, Colombia, living in Buenos Aires while studying at La UBA.  There’s no point in pretending that you’re Argentine because the accent is so distinct that a true Porteño will figure out you’re lying in less than a minute and then try to mouth-rape you the second they realize that you’re from the U.S.  I actually met a few Colombians and they started talking about Bogotá so I was like, “Ummm…actually my parents moved us to California when I was really young so that’s why I don’t know anything about that city…erm…welp…gotta go!”  

Phoebe (or should I say Kate from South Africa) got very, very borracha.  It was at that level where we were so worried that we decided that the best decision was to take her to the hospital.  We carried her down the stairs, hopped into a cab and drove to Hospital Aleman.  There are both public and private hospitals in Argentina and this particular one was private so I had to charge approximately 650 pesos to my debit card since none of us ever walk around with more than 100 pesos.  Thank goodness she is okay now, but it was very frightening to see something like that happen.  

Tonight Rachel and I went back to the MALBA to watch a Brazilian documentary.  It was about a group of friends getting ready for Christmas day and it felt like it was The Real World: São Paulo because you didn’t know if it was an actual documentary or if parts of it were scripted.  Afterward, we went on a double-date in Las Cañitas, a very cool part of the Palermo barrio which has a lot of amazing restaurants and is close to the polo fields.  Rachel was finally meeting up with Damian, a 30 year old Porteño she met a few weeks ago and once called her 56 times in one day.  Damian was really nice, cool, and attractive while my date was Eli, an approximately 36 year old bald Brasilian from São Paulo who had no ganas de hablar para nada.  I kept having to ask him questions only to get one or two word answers and it got to the point that Damian just included me into his and Rachel’s conversation because El Brasileño was obviously not up for talking to me.  At one point I asked him how he knew Damian and he told me that they met in 1985.  I was still an unfertilized egg in 1985 while he was a sentient creature meandering about South America!  WHAT.  Other than him being a tiny bit (and by tiny I mean WHAT THE HELL, HOW OLD ARE YOU? 1985?!?) too old for me, he rather nice when he actually spoke, took us to a really cool bar where he paid for my drink and I didn’t have to pay for a cab home either.  Dáleeee, che.  

Right now watching an episode of Glee in my bed almost sounds better than Devendra Banhart doing this to me in person:


GOODNIGHT, WORLD!