a dangerous place?

pursuit of carnivale: unintended adventure in rosarioEveryone says that Buenos Aires is a dangerous place. Before leaving for Argentina, friends and family reminded me of the imminent danger that awaited me just outside the “safety” of my American Airlines flight. The scene of my potential kidnapping and trade into internal bondage, dreamed up by my mother, was relayed to me repeatedly in a desperate attempt to impress upon me the need to be cautious. And yet for some reason, despite rather graphic images of servitude that I carried with me amongst my baggage, I arrived in Argentina feeling like no real harm could come my way. After all I’ve been living in New York for several years now, and possibly overconfidently presume myself invincible.

It didn’t take very long living in Buenos Aires, however, to understand that my lackadaisical attitude to toward safety and security would end up proving my invincibility theory to be false and my mother’s worse nightmares to be true. Our first days of orientation consisted of long lectures on how exactly to avoid the various criminals in the city, how not to be taken advantage of, and how to scream for help in Spanish if we do in fact become the victim of any array of criminal activity. It became evident to me that my parents’ advice was not the overly vigilant ravings (well-know within the Jewish clan) that I had thought, but rather appropriate instructions to be followed.

This so-called danger which everyone speaks of, however, that’s lurking all around the wonderful things in the city—hiding in the empanadas, and waiting ever so patiently to snatch your purse outside the posh Palermo boutiques—is easy to forget about if one does not make a point of being suspicious of every Argentine she sees. Nonetheless, I became especially apprehensive after a girl on the NYU program was robbed at knifepoint at 10:00 p.m. on a crowded street. Though she’s a small little thing, this particular girl had the courage to defend herself from her attacker and run, escaping with only a slight surface wound in the process. Knowing that were I in similar circumstances I would roll over and surrender my belongings and myself rather than attempt flight, I decided this was the moment to start heeding all those words of caution.

Now as I walk down the street, no matter where I am, I tend to look at passersby in a different light. When someone approaches to ask for the time, I simply say that I don’t know, rather than rummage through my purse like the silly fool they take me for. But being so cautious comes at a price. The other day I was walking home with two friends early in the morning after a long night of dancing when suddenly a strange voice from behind us said, “Como se dice mala suerte en ingles?” Immediately my heart started pounding, I knew we were being robbed. But I was prepared; I grasped my purse tightly and ran to the other side of the street—every man for themselves. When I reached the other sidewalk I looked back frantically to see what was going on. To my surprise my two friends were still there, and seemingly having a pleasant conversation with three very cute boys. I hesitated before slowly walking back towards the group. Apparently, while we were absorbed in our frivolity my friends and I had inadvertently walked under a ladder. Contrary to what my intuitions had concluded these young fellows were not trying to rob us, but merely to warn us of our bad luck. Go figure.