Into the wild.

...The excitement turns into a distant image of my Latin American life as I wait the two years before the start of my scholarship. The distant image turns into reality when I click the "Purchase Flight" button. The reality then turns into nervousness as I am about to say goodbye to my boyfriend of two years at the San Francisco airport. And then of course, as in any story depicting Vera's poise, nervousness turns to full out fear. And no, this is not the sort of fear that is often mistaken for anxiety, but the real deal. My stomach is turning inside out as my heavy backpack full of jeans, shoes, books, and jewelery (my four most weighty possessions) pulls on my shoulders. My mind scatters and I feel ill. I am about to leave this comforting transitioning stage and get out into the wild. I will no longer have the excuses: “I just left the home I built in Thailand, leave me alone, I can sleep until 1pm,” and “I clearly don't have enough time to settle so am just going to hop around Canada and US spending my savings for the greater cause of seeing the familiar faces of friends, family, boyfriend.” But now, now, this is over. No more excuses, no more nostalgic longing for the familiarity of my life in Thailand, and no more watching “How I Met your Mother” until 4am under the false pretenses of jet-lag.

I am squeezing Thor’s hand one last time and I head off into: 1. the Sky priority line I should not have entered, 2. the machine that beeps due to my laziness to remove the couple kilograms of jewelery I have on me, and 3. the dawning that my flight is delayed causing me to miss my connection to Buenos Aires. After awaiting for my re-route passes via Huston instead of DC, I prepare to sit in the middle of the row, and not get my veggie meal. Beh, worse things can happen. I talk my way to the window seat and I pick out the unnaturally small balls of meat off my pasta. Yes, worse things can happen. For example, bags can somehow not make the re-route and can sat lonely at Washington Dulles. Oh yeah, and they did.

We land in Buenos Aires and I jump off the plane, running into the wild,feeling the heat on my skin. It hits me suddenly and then lingers until I go into an epileptic shock of happiness. I marvel in the warm air for a few seconds, stalling the line, and then continue to the next obstacle: passport control. Now for those of you who have never traveled with me, my passport tends to raise strange suspicions. And no, Macadamia or Macaronia are not countries, nor do I happen to come from either one. Luckily, the officer gives me no trouble at all and only smirks at my first failed attempt to speak Argentine Spanish: “Ciao.” Huh? I could have come up with something better for the nice immigration official.

I find a bathroom and quickly slide out of my 8 layers (planes are cold guys, it’s not just me) and into a pair of jean shorts. Ah, I have been waiting for this day. While waiting for our luggage, I smirk with superiority at the bundled people, again, marveling in the humidity of the 33C/90F air.

And I marvel. And I marvel. Marveeeeeeeeeeeeel.

No bags. Now they are all smirking at me as their roll their possessions away.

Well, I have a carry-on, don’t I? So I file a claim and run to the bus outside the airport. While running I start the thing I start every time I leave an airport in a foreign land—I crack up. I start smiling like an overly enthusiastic young teen (and no one likes those) and even let out a few audible laughs. It all just looks so good! The crowd, the noise, the heat, the palm trees, the hand gestures thrown all around me! Life!

After a short ride I go through the lease moves with the landlord of my already reserved apartment (and for those of you who are impressed by the fact that I prearranged this, before you give me too much credit I think it fair to confess that I did so 2 hours prior to my flight). The lady leaves and I do the second thing I do when I arrive in a my new residence in a foreign country—I jump on all cushiony items that get in my way. Yes, it sounds like another teen girl thing, except take out the fun, hip, oink, playful side and add gigantic Vera with flailing arms. Yes, now you have the right picture.

The place is adorable; it is located in San Telmo, on Peru Avenue, right by Plaza de Dorengo and the San Telmo market. The area was once the place to be if you had pockets full off pesos and belonged to some aristocratic family, however, now it is a neighborhood filled with beautiful old building deteriorating in a charming way. The apartment is a one bedroom on the 5^th floor of an old residential building. When I say old I mean elevator doors in the forms of metal harmonica that never seem closed enough, and skeleton keys that resemble something that should be a prop for a Lord of the Rings movie.

After I rearrange everything possible to have a sense of control and leadership over the place I now have to call home, I hit the streets for necessities, some of which include soap, underwear and tomatoes. The streets of San Telmo are bustling with the sounds of bargaining and vending. The San Telmo Sunday market is a full out replica of the Chiang Mai Sunday market and I get giggly and fuzzy inside. But then I walk the wild streets and want to talk about it. I already want to talk about all of this with someone. Ugh. I am lonely. I am already lonely. I start to panic and try to remind myself that not only is this how I have felt when settling into a completely strange place, beginning a whole new page, but also that I have been solely walking for 40 minutes.

I decide on making it a night and walk the streets of San Telmo to the world famous Plaza de Mayo. I first learned about this place when reading about the dictatorship in Argentina, and the brave non-violent resistance organized by the mothers of the disappeared, who later became known as the Madres de Plaza de Mayo. I can’t help but notice the placards lining the plaza at this very moment, asking the government not to forget about them. Who are "them"? The unemployed :(

I learn the subte today. The subte is great. Just like any other subway system belonging to a big city, the subte is color-coded and straight forward, though with loads of lopsided graffiti lining its walls. I met Rene today, a past ambassadorial scholar, and my true savior/mentor in this process of Argentine preparation. We chatted about our lives and how we ended up where we ended up, and she even fed me a brownie! Jeez, could this day get any better?

Wait, I thought I was inconvenienced by the lost bags, the hungry ATM that swallowed my one and only debit card, and even started to feel the first smudges of loneliness? Ah, schizophrenic first days settling into the wild.

After realizing I purchased whole milk that tastes like it has directly been transported from the cow’s tit to my lips, I settle for a tomato that tastes like a real tomato and an episode of dubbed “CSI New York.”

Buenos Aires, thank you for welcoming me into your embrace. (Also, I would like to add that on normal days I am not this unpredictable, and hope to have a good relationship with you. You already remind me of my past lover, Skopje, so that’s a healthy start.)