10. Cultural activity

Some weeks back the NYU in Buenos Aires program sponsored a trip to an estancia, a typical Argentine ranch a few hours outside of the city. We rode horses, rode bikes, took a tour of the castle, ate steak, and watched authentic Gaucho dances. On paper it sounds the most cultural (it certainly qualifies as a cultural activity) but it was actually one of the most touristy things I have done in Argentina. I can't recall another time I was in a space completely designed for tourists, except for the NYU academic center. The presentations were in English, the other visitors were also tourists, and the day was fun, but it was completely fabricated. The asado, Argentine barbeque, felt like the most authentic part if only because they offered us delicious and exotic things like blood sausage. Gaucho culture, in many ways, is fabricated for tourism. A lot of the classes I am taking here speak to the same topics and one that has come up a lot has been the existence, and then extinguishment of the Gauchos. At one point in history, gauchos roamed the campo, lived as nomads, and work on ranches like the one we visited, but they were systematically eliminated. In the late 1800’s they were considered a harsh stamp of Argentina’s barbarism and lawlessness. As a result, their culture was slowly illegalized. With the institution of public education, and residency laws, authentic gaucho culture finally disappeared. A few years later theDan at the Estancia gaucho reemerged, as a tourist attraction and a cultural symbol.

Other components of the daily life here feel much more like cultural experiences. Though I will probably skirt the line of what is and is not appropriate for the second time a more fascinating cultural experience was a trip to a telo. The existence of telos, especially on the scale they exist in this city, is a cultural phenomenon. We discovered a telo directly across the street from our academic center from the program director during orientation. A telo is a hotel that rents rooms by the hour. They exist to such a degree because, like many European cultures, young Argentines tend to live at home for considerably longer than young Americans. It is not considered shameful or embarrassing to frequent a telo, rather, it was described to me as expected. When I've probed the locals about them they are genuinely surprised that there isn't an American equivalent to the same degree. I respond with: “why would I go to a telo when I have my own apartment?” A location built for the soul purpose of sex has condoms on the table, mirrors on every surface, including the ceiling, a Jacuzzi, a small bathroom taped off with read tape that reads desinfectado, and a bed. You can have champagne and sex toys delivered to the room by way of a cabinet in the wall, maintaining complete anonymity. There is a TV, but it only plays porn. To the young people in this country their neighborhood telo is like a second home, to us Americans it is a truly surreal experience.

The New Japanese GardenMy favorite cultural activity in France is visiting parks. I am convinced that nobody does parks like the French. From delicately manicured flowerbeds, to grandiose sculptures, to large, open woods, to green lawns filled with picknickers, the French have mastered both the art of landscaping and the ever-so-subtle art of good policing so that grass stays green and chairs stay in the park, even if that means that sometimes the police will ask you not to play your guitar… And since Paris is so consistently grey 87% of the year, on a rare sunny day there is nothing more delightful than a chair in the sun, a view of a chateau, a pretty lawn, and a fountain, and the best sandwich the local boulangerie can provide.
But this week, I had a slightly different park experience. In a neighboring town, still conveniently located only a few stops on the metro from my house, there is a very small museum, at the moment a temporary collection of photographs of India in the 1920’s, with the most magnificent garden. The visit starts in the Japanese village, with meandering streams, grassy knolls, bonsai trees, and pagodas. Through a gate-way of bushes, you pass into the English garden, with an open field spotted with flowers, a pond, and a wooden bridge hidden in a rocky cliff. After the English garden, comes a more typically French rose garden, with vines cultivated into different shapes and a stunning, white greenhouse. Around the corner is the rocky, alpine forest, complete with mossy boulders and twisting paths through ferns and pine trees, which then opens up into the “swamp” which is actually a man made pond filled with lily pads and surrounded by flowers. And then at the very end, comes the best of all, the new Japanese garden, which is a wonderland of ponds full of coy, rounded red bridges, enormous weeping willow trees, mountains of flowers, trickling waterfalls, and because the French are less lawsuit obsessed, rocks that you can climb on in the water. Each garden feels like it’s own oasis, bringing clarity and calm, even though from time to time you catch reminders that your still in Paris, the sound of chaos from the school next door, a glimpse of the street through the trees.
Paris can be a very monotonous city because most of it was constructed to look the same. Even when you take a trip to Chinatown or the Algerian corner, the vibrant street markets still take place under the typical Hausmannian balconies. But Parisian parks never cease to surprise me with their variety. Each one is unique. Luxembourg is grandiose, Buttes Chaumont is wild and monumental, Place des Vosges is calm and isolated. And in the little cultivated garden I found, you can take a walk around the world from the meadows of England, to the Swiss Alps, to a Japanese tea garden without straying far from home. And that, to me, the endless variety at the tip of your fingers, is what makes cities so spectacular, and worth putting up with the noise, pollution, and dirt.

Look at how fancy the McDonalds isNormally you wouldn't consider going to the movies a "cultural" experience, but going to the movies abroad is. A couple of friends and I decided to go watch "Confessions of a Shopaholic" (don't judge) a couple of weeks ago which is hilariously translated as "Loca por las compras." We all meet up at 10 to go inside the fabulous movie theatre, which is right in front of the famed Recoletta cemetery and has it's own cafe and a very large bookstore. Just in case you decide to get your knowledge on or sip on a cup of coffee and eat a media luna before the movie beings. We ride the escalator to the boletería to buy our tickets and the lady, in spanish, asks us which seat I'd like to sit in. I was a little confused because I didn't think that this would be a decision I'd have to make so soon. We ask the lady if there's anyway that we could sit together and she arranges our seating next to each other. She told us the area that we were sitting in but it didn't really make a difference to me at all. We were about 30 minutes early, and normally we're used to just being able to waltz into the theatre and sit and relax. Here, you have to wait for your theater number to be called. While we were waiting I kind of started walking around, not doing anything special, and I saw that at the concession stand you had the option of buying either salted popcorn or caramel popcorn. I noticed that a lot of people opted for caramel flavored popcorn over the salted. The portions also seemed a lot smaller than what's served in the states. I had an alfajore in my bag and some water so I thought I was good to go. Our theater number was called and we go inside the theatre. It was just like going to a play where you look around hoping to find your seats, obsessively checking each seat you pass as to avoid any awkward conversation with someone claiming you took their seat. We all sit in our assigned seats and wait for the movie to begin. In the states most theaters tend to have previews before previews where they'd show triva or play music or infomercials of the sort. They didn't have that here so 3 minutes into sitting down I got bored and decided to whip out my alfajore. I don't think I like alfajores that much and so I gave it to madmadmad instead and watched her eat it. The previews started and it was funny to me that there was 1 Argentine movie among the 6 movies from the US. When watching the preview for the Argentine movie and hearing the crowd erupt with laughter, kind of like how some say that it's difficult to "get" British humor, I wondered if I'd be able to get the humor. The movie started and I really enjoyed watching it with the Spanish subtitles. I also loved that the audience thought the movie was funny and laughed at the same jokes that I did despite the language barrier. All in all it was a good time and now I know how to say Confessions of a Shopaholic in Spanish.

I recently saw a movie written and directed by Argentine Lucía Puenzo titled El niño pez. Without giving too much away:

The film tells the story of two girls, each around twenty years old. One, Lala, is the daughter of a wealthy family that lives in Buenos Aires. The other, Guayi, is a servant in Lala’s house. The two fall in love and, as imdb so curtly summarizes: the girls, “unable to find a place for their love in the world they live in, are pushed to commit a crime”. But it is a mistake to classify this movie as a social drama dealing with the touchy issue of homosexuality in Latin America. It seems that “the world [that the girls] live in” is more forbidding because of the class differences between them. Guayi is Paraguayan and while I am no expert I have the feeling from being here a few months that the two countries are seen as completely different. While my image of Argentina prioritizes Buenos Aires and urban culture Paraguay has no comparable city. Paraguay’s population is also more impoverished. Yet what makes Paraguay an interesting choice is the enormous population (the majority) of Paraguayans who speak the indigenous language, guaraní, if only because it so clearly suggests the legacy antecedent to Spain’s.

Yet the main character is not Guayi but Lala who flees home early in the story to visit Guayi’s home. The film does not take you to the most rural, urban, or impoverished part of Paraguay—it takes you to Guayi’s past. I liked how the images could portray the difference in the landscape while maintaining a focus on the story. Lucía Puenzo has also made a movie called XXY about a hermaphrodite. I want to see that to see if she deals with the social and sexual themes there as deftly as she does here.

In El niño pez Lala is played by Inés Efron, who played Alex, the lead of XXY. Efron does not have the same beauty as Mariela Vitale, who plays Guayi. Maybe I can clarify what I mean if I tell you that Vitale appeared nude in playboy not long ago. Vitale has a commercial beauty, a look that can be marketed because somehow it signifies something verifiable. I might compare her to Megan Fox from the Transformers movies in this way. I wanted to clarify this because, although I think Efron was casted for her superior acting talent and history with the director I also think her appearance was engineered to compliment Vitale’s. Lala dresses in tank-tops and jeans while Guayi wears short skirts and thongs. Lala is skinny and pale. Guayi exudes the exotic, the indigenous—think Disney’s Pocahontas.

Throughout the movie Lala is followed when she leaves Buenos Aires and returns to find her world turned inside out. She sees Guayi with a man and feels extremely jealous. One of my friends pointed out that this jealousy smacked of the machismo culture that I have gotten to know a little better on the streets and in the boliches of Buenos Aires. And, without going too far, I think that Efron’s character is intentionally made more masculine in contrast with Vitale’s. I am not sure what to make of the gender scripting mixed with class and sexuality but I certainly think argentine cultural values heavily affected how this story was put together, for better and for worse.

Radost FX

Take the green line to the Namesti Miru metro stop, or the red metro line or tram to I.P. Pavlova and walk a short distance on the cobblestone streets, and prepare yourself for a wonderful state of mind sure to last all day with a morning stop at the slightly touristy, but still amazingly fun Radost FX. Upon your arrival on a weekend morning, you can expect to find a wonderful brunch that is easily accessible for almost any budget. What most people don’t realize, however is that Radost FX’s brunch is geared toward vegetarians. However, don’t let the lack of bacon and sausage deter you; Radost’s breakfast is a staple not to be missed whilst in Prague. Whatever you choose to order, from Radost’s famous “Elvis” bagel, to its equally scrumptious Greek God omelet, the establishment is never one to disappoint at any given part of the day, thanks in part to its ambience, as well as its surprisingly well speaking English staff. You see, Radost FX has a bit of a Clark Kent complex. Yet on weekend mornings before 11 a.m., it is a place for a leisurely meal where one can be assured to eat something both satisfying and delicious. By night however, Radost FX gets its Superman on, and transforms itself into a nightclub worthy of mention in any Prague guidebook.

The club is so noteworthy in fact, that famed international pop artist Rihanna shot the music video for her hit single “Please Don’t Stop The Music “ inside its nightclub. One step inside Radost FX, and the rich deep red velvets envelop you, beckoning you to come in further. Once inside, a Moulin Rouge inspired décor surrounds you, as plush couches with regal embroidery help establish a swanky upscale atmosphere that would not be out of place in New York City’s SoHo or the East Village neighborhood. Bass rhythms shake the black lacquered floors, pleading you to dance atop them. Once downstairs in the main area, a bar glowing a cool blue serves up any sort of concoction one can imagine. Decadent chandeliers hang from the ceiling, threatening to come loose and crash to the ground as they shake from the vibrations rattling from the dance floor. The dance floor is a bit cramped, but those seeking refuge can climb the steps to the DJ platform which acts as a pseudo-dance floor that often ends up being the best place to dance. Those looking for a more relaxed night can opt to sit in Radost’s expansive lounge area that also glows a distinct cool blue, while getting a drink from the contrasting red bar area, located close by. Whatever time of day you choose to come to Radost FX, or whatever your mood is, whether it be leisurely or party-friendly, you can be assured to have a great time at Radost FX.

My experience at Prague is recent visit to the museum. I went to the national museum here at Prague that boasts modern paintings, sculptures, and other works. There are, about four floors with sky-high ceilings and an open middle corridor that reminds me of Bobst. Call me nostalgic, but everything I see is eventually compared to with places in New York. Similarly, the museum reminded me of the Guggenheim museum except that the museum was more rigid and rectangular, of course. The museum also had a semblance of the MoMa because of the large open spaces and large white walls that juxtapose with the colorful artwork. I enjoyed the museum because regardless of the different country and culture , the same rules still apply to the viewers at the museum: No running, no flash, and security guards lurking at every corner. Also, I enjoyed being able to interpret and hopefully correctly understand the meaning behind and art piece. Though I do not speak Czech, I felt engaged to each art piece regardless of cultural barries that do however effect me outside of the museum. But inside of the museum. everything was subject to any and all interpretations. There was a particular art world that struck out at me from the very beginning. Near the entrance there is a copy of one of brokoff's bronze sculptures. It stands maybe at about 7 feet tall and has an air of grandeur and superiority. The face does not even face down at you, but rather away and he seems to be protecting himself or maybe shielding hilmself away from something. His gesture suggests a rough and masculine motion that can be interpreted as either fear or triumph. The bronze statue is appealing because of its dark and intimidating impression. Other than that, I found it interesting to see the sculpture at the front of the museum, acting as the protector or the host of the museum intimidating visitors from the very start. My experience at the museum was very enjoyable and it is my favorite museum here at Prague. It is a very modern museum, barely reflecting any signs of Czech culture. Even the building sticks out like a sore thumb in the neighborhood surrounded by gothic and buildings. The museum is the most rigid and modern building on that street. At first glance the museum could even be mistaken as some corporate building. But fortunately, it is a museum which houses many great works of art.

tango
I imagined my first tango show in Buenos Aires to be a very humble yet romantic experience. I pictured myself with a glass of Argentine wine in a dark, small and aging venue in San Telmo. I expected that the dancers would be beautiful and passionate and that the music would swallow the room. I imagined a timeless experience that would transport me to the Buenos Aires milongas I had read about.

But my first tango show in Buenos Aires proved slightly different from my hopes and my expectations. Instead of the cozy, hole in the wall tango venue I had anticipated, I found myself in a room larger than two of my high school’s gymnasiums put together. The ceilings were high and a large glitzy stage with red curtains was elevated above the floor space. The floor space was dense with rows of rectangular tables, reminding me of the Hogwarts dining hall in Harry Potter. Hundreds of people sat awaiting the show as waiters dressed in matching uniforms served them steak dinners and cheese platters. In addition to the red wine I had expected at the show, the waiters also offered cheesy “tango-themed” cocktails and “sex on the beaches”.

When a very eccentric tango dancing couple tapped me on my shoulder and insisted that I smile as the venue’s photographer captured them sexually posing “mid-tango-move” behind me, I knew I had entirely failed at finding an authentic tango show. I also knew that I would not be paying for that picture…(or the CD, or the DVD, which were also offered at the end of the performance).

The show itself consisted of multiple performers dancing and singing and sexually wrapping legs at high speeds. A band, which included a bandoneon player, was elevated to the right of the stage. I was pleased that despite the modern twist given to most aspects of the performance there was still some degree of live music. I say “some degree” because the live band was also accompanied by electronic, techno-infused rhythms of milonga. Despite how glitzy and touristy and unlike my ideal tango show the experience was, at the end of the day, the show was still entertaining. The performers were talented and deserve much credit for their impressive high-speed dancing. Although I complain that it was not the tango experience of Buenos Aires that I had desired, to some extent I still experienced an authentic showing of culture. It is true that the tango can still be found in a more historically accurate “authentic” form, but tango, still a huge part of the culture and the pride of Buenos Aires, has inevitably evolved with the city over time.

When I came to London, to be honest, I wasn't quite sure what kind of situation I was going to be getting myself into. I had an image in my mind, but any image I created had the high possibility of being completely exaggerated or distorted from reality. Yes, they speak english here, (or at least some form of english!), but that doesn't necessarily mean that culturally everything else will be similar. After landing at Heathrow I could immediately tell that people, though similar in dress and expression, were vastly different from back home in New York. 

When you live in London for even a mere week you can tell that the lifestyle is quite different than back home. Back home in New York, shops are open no later than six in the morning and don't close until much later than nine at night. Take out is available at three in the morning if you wanted and "take-out" can come in any and ever food imaginable. There is very rarely a quiet hour in the city, even in the wee hours of the morning. People hustle and bustle up and down every street--- both business men and women, students, and other city-dwellers alike--- and specifically, when it comes to weaving in and around tourists who don't know where they are going, we New Yorkers are so well adjusted to their sudden stopping that our zig-zagged walking patterns may look spastic but are really second nature to us. Everyone is stereotypically loud and fast talking, and not so good with the whole "patience" concept. (You may disagree, but in comparison to Londoners, well, we New Yorkers can sometimes live up to that stereotype!) 

With all that we New Yorkers are and are adjusted to, coming to London is and was a complete form of culture shock! Stores open casually around ten in the morning, much later than we are used to, and close as early as five in the afternoon. Don't even count on places regularly being open on weekends either! Take out is not well known here, especially the concept of calling ahead for your food. Walking the streets is a casual stroll really, no one in as much of a rush as back home. Don't even get me started on queueing! Waiting in line for over thirty minutes doesn't seem to bother anyone! Being confronted with this confusing London way of life I was determined to understand this different lifestyle. 

Enjoying Bedford Square Park

In order to observe this new culture, my friends and I decided to take part in a

regular English activity: sitting in a park. It was around lunch time on a rare beautiful sunny day and it seemed to draw out by the numbers people from all forms of London life. Students sat under the shade of trees on laid out blankets with their school books strewn across the ground beneath them, their coffees (or tea!) and cigarettes in hand; business men and women came out and had their lunch under the light sunshine dressed in their finest, not seeming to care that a wrinkle was making its way into the crisp suit; nannies took the children out to play in the jungle-gyms; adorable elderly women and men came out and took a seat on the benches. As I sat there for over the course of an hour this seemed to repeat over and over again. More and more people matching similar description came out to join the bunch and none seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

On the outside, Londoners may seem quite similar to the New York sense, but the thing that keeps them as far distanced from us as ever is their ability it seems to take everything very casually. Sitting and watching the park, I was given the overwhelming feeling that here in London, sitting in the park and enjoying peoples company was as important, if not more so, than working or anything else that we find important. This relaxed culture understands that although a life of hustle and bustle is important, so is a life of patience and taking time to enjoy life.

If I had to characterize my time abroad, I would say that I am in a constant pursuit to really connect with Buenos Aires. At times I think that the best way to feel entrenched in porteno life is to go about with the trivialities of my everyday routine, but other times I feel the urge to milk the city of its cultural and local experiences to avoid feeling like I’ve simply transplanted my life in New York to a South American setting.

In a weekend where I was feeling particularly inclined towards intensifying my familiarity with the city—visiting several museums, exhausting my Porteno contacts, going to local parties and boliches until six in the morning every night—several friends and I took the advice of a very cute administrator at NYU, and went to a unusually interesting show.

album art

On this night, my three friends and I all got into separate cabs, assuming that the concert was a 10 minute ride—6 peso fare away—as usual. As time passed and we all grew more and more anxious, alone in the back seats of our respective cabs, beginning to assume the worst from our sheisty taxistas, we began texting each other to make sure that we weren’t be “taken for a ride.” I asked my cab driver which neighborhood we were in. He looked at me confusedly in the rearview mirror, “Belgrano por su puesto.” He retorted. “Ah yes! Belgrano.” I said. He could tell I’d never been to this seemingly obvious part of town—which I had thought was a suburb of Buenos Aires, and he responded that Buenos Aires doesn’t only exist in Puerto Madero and Palermo (the most posh, and probably least cool areas)…ouch!

I decided to take what the taxi driver said as less of an insult and more as a bit of wisdom. How had I not been to Belgrano yet after three months in the city? I got out of the cab in front of a huge theatre, El Centro Cultural 25 de Mayo, and was relived to see my friend waiting out in front. I could sense the relief in his eyes as well since he was obviously the first of us to arrive. The crowd loitering outside was a serious aberration from the typical Argentine scene—indie kids, hipsters, maybe a punk or two. It was all very exciting.

We walked into the theatre half way through the first band’s set, and there we saw the strangest thing. “Go Neko” the indie band on stage was rocking out, while the hundreds of people who had come to see them play we sitting, orderly and well mannered in the theatre chairs—calmly bobbing their heads and drumming their hands to the music. The disparity between the performance on stage, and the venue was so bizarre. If you were to only look at the stage you would expect a mosh pit in the audience, and if you were to only look out at the audience you would expect to see a full orchestra on stage.

We followed suit, however, found ourselves some seats and sat back to relax and enjoy the show. One of us even left at some point to go get soda and candy from the Kiosko—a reflex perhaps of being in a theatre. Eventually the band we had come to see, "El Mato a Un Policia Motorizado," came on. The previously orderly crowd began to get a little rowdier—apparently this group from the city of La Plata, Buenos Aires, Argentina has quite a following. But for the most part, everyone returned to their chairs, bobbing, drumming, singing along.

el mato a un policia motorizado

At one point a song came on that aroused great enthusiasm in the crowd. One chico jumped on stage and began galloping back and forth, kicking his legs and reaching out into the crowd, beckoning others to come and join him. At first only one other boy got on with him, and the two continued to jump around in their indie ways. But then the madness spread and everyone began pouring onto the stage, at which point an epic mosh pit ensued for the duration of the song—despite the desperate protestations of a few small women who worked for the theatre.

It was as though the music defied the venue, and after that people wouldn’t be confined to their chairs. Instead they crowded to the aisles and danced up against the stage, or hung off the balcony shaking their heads to beat. It was definitely a show worthy of stepping outside Palermo.

An Old Painting of a Turkish BathI have just returned to Berlin from my two week spring break and break from thinking about all things school-related, including this blog—for which, I might yet again say my apologies for being a negligent blog parent. This post I mistakenly thought was a free post a while back, but I like the topic of it and so I’m attempting to rewrite it.

Anyway, if anyone has been following my posts, I wrote before about how I was going to go to Istanbul for spring break. And, I did go to Istanbul for spring break. When I was in the city, though, I began to notice how much of a tourist I had to be if I were only going to be there for a week. Seeing the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque, these were things you had to do in Istanbul—these are the cornerstones of travel conversation for anyone who has been to Turkey, or that’s how they’re presented. I couldn’t visit New York and not see Ellis Island, I couldn’t visit Berlin and not go to the top of the TV Tower. But, as I’ve lived in New York and now live in Berlin, I have not visited either of these attractions. So, what makes these attractions and not cultural activities? I think it comes in the fact that they are so ingrained in travel discourse and so overrun with visitors every single day that their value as cultural icons is negated by the fact that the only people who actually are culturally Istanbullus (residents of Istanbul) or New Yawkahs at these places are only there because of visitors.