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One of my friends invited me to the club tonight, but instead of staying up past 5am surrounded by people in the dark, I have decided to stay up writing, because that is what I like to do.
The winter here is strangely refreshing to me. Although it's colder here than in Buenos Aires, it never drops much lower than a chilly autumn day in Pittsburgh, PA. It's almost amusing to see the reactions of the locals when they see that my roommate and I aren't cold. "Qué bella la juventud!" my host mom's friend sniffed from beneath an extremely thick coat.
We've started classes, but I don't have class in the morning, so instead, I read Silvina Ocampo in a courtyard by the classrooms and practice flute outside the office (the people inside directed me there when I asked for a room. They seem to like hearing a flutist practice, though this may change after a few weeks).
Although all our classes take place in the same wing, the campus of the Universidad Nacional de Córdoba is immense, and it feels almost as old as it is (over 400 years). It's one of the most prestigious universities in South America, which is why youth from all over Argentina and beyond come here to study, more than to Buenos Aires. The only reason the campus isn't flooding with students is because they're gone for winter vacation, but that will change in a week.
Next week, after my afternoon class, Spanish for Business, I'll start going to work for my other class, Service Learning. The details are still being worked out, but I'll be volunteering at an after-school program for kids. The place is called La Casa del Pueblo en Villa Urquiza. I visited for the first time on Friday, playing music and asking them to imagine or listen for specific things while I played (I struggled a bit for not having prepared what I would tell them, but my Spanish, if not perfect, was enough to need further translation only once). In addition, one of the boys played music for us on the keyboard, and a girl kept giving him suggestions on what to play; she was so eager to dance.
I don't know the first thing about being good with kids, so I know I'm going to be humbled many times in entering this realm. (It looks like the kids are grabbing my flute, but those are my hands.)
Seeing the picture above reminds me of what I wrote on this blog, around a month ago: the idea that traveling abroad allows people to become part of the landscape, because everything about them seems foreign. The fact that I've also got a linguistic landscape to navigate presents another barrier. My prayer throughout all this is that I see these people for who they are, not as the objects of something valiant that I'm going to call "service learning" and put on my resume.
La Casa del Pueblo was founded and is currently run by a single woman, whom I already admire and who will oversee my work over the next few weeks. Because it's a poorer barrio, she says she will walk me to and from the bus stop. Taking the bus there will be another trial to get used to (I thought the buses in Pittsburgh were sketch; they're luxuriously punctual compared to what tears through the streets here).
Still, I am honestly so excited to start volunteering, even though I'm not the best with kids, and even though I'm so naïve when it comes to the needs of these kids and the hardships they face (just entering the barrio where this house is located was eye-opening). Nevertheless, being able to perform for them, to be generous with my music and my sound, as well as to hear their own music and voices, convinced me that whatever my reservations, I have much to offer them and much to receive from them.
This brings to mind what I wrote on the wall in the wing where we have classes. It's a tradition of my study abroad program to have students write, on this wall, what they're bringing into Córdoba, and on the opposite wall, before leaving, what they're taking away. So here's what I wrote (in the spidery font towards the bottom):
Translated to English, I wrote, "Music and a willingness to listen more deeply." No, I did not write "A broken heart" in three different languages.
The day after my visit, Saturday, was considerably warm — warm enough to be a cool summer day in California. My host mom, my roommate, and I left the house para dar vueltas in a nearby park. Despite my resolution to take pictures minimally, I couldn't help myself and took like 20, because there were so many sights that seemed too fleetingly beautiful not to capture. So here are a few of them:
We have a couple more days of summery weather before the temperature drops again. Hay que aprovechar, so on Sunday afternoon (so in nine or so hours), my host mom is taking my roommate and I to Carlos Paz, where there are mountains and a lake not too far away. I'm eager to go. To be honest, the way that the porteños described Córdoba to me had me imagining mountains visible from any point in the city. While Córdoba is smaller in many ways than Buenos Aires, it's still the second largest city in Argentina, and compared to what I had anticipated, I feel as if I've seen nothing but city. Even this park had that thick city air.
Not to say that there's nothing to see in the city. The Plaza San Martín, the avenues surrounding it, and the Cathedral are beautiful, as well as seeing so many street musicians (I spoke to one of them to ask about learning folklore music! He told me he was new here and didn't know much himself, but told me to look out for another guitarist in a nearby corner, who could recommend some songs to me).
And, as in Buenos Aires and probably all cities, there are plenty of places in Córdoba that I perceive as shabby and dirty. It's still a mystery to me, one of the questions I grappled with that one night in Buenos Aires: What do I do with my gaze, which makes me want to pity what I see? I feel similarly towards what I wrote about the slums in my previous entry. I don't know what to do with that sight, but I didn't want to forget it, so I wrote it down.
Sunset Friday evening when I got back from La Casa del Pueblo.
Perhaps I write too much down. At some risk, I'm closing this entry with (excerpts from) a stream-of-consciousness from my first time at a club. While it'd be nice to maintain the pristine image of a girl who wouldn't go to a club when given the chance in a foreign country, night life is a rather loud option in the study abroad experience. Some students choose to ignore it (not without reason), but I chose to go last night, and I think it's worth some space on this blog.
I wrote these excerpts in my room, after returning from the club. As a bit of context, it was a sponsored event, so there was free beer and shots in the first few hours:
The music, movement, the darkness makes me want to fall in front of myself. It is a battle. I don’t want to surrender. At the same time, I can see myself becoming enslaved to the volume — the volume of moving bodies, the thickness of music too loud, the way that alcohol blurs your thinking.
I want to believe... that I’m not enslaved to the heavy sways that dominate my mind. They make it difficult to walk, and so, so difficult — though not impossible — to think straight.
I’m on the bed, in my room, in the house of my host mom, isn’t it a blessing to be here, safe, alone?
When I am there, as long as I drink, it is battle. It is open warfare with two formidable foes: alcohol and the ambiance. I long to be able to speak and hear the people, but it is near impossible. This is not how I want to meet friends — pressed up too close, screaming into one another’s ears, scarcely able to perceive their face in the flashing lights. Además, I am not a tremendous fan of the music.
Then why did I go? What is the value of this all?
It’s an industry, por supuesto — night life, the drinks, the bartenders. The DJs, musicians, claro. Es tanto.
Why?
It makes it okay to think a little less, to feel powerful because your body blends into the darkness that knows no boundary, your voice is thrown into the waves of sound that pound the ear with such force.
It makes me battle with all my might, with all I have, to think. THINK.
And I wanted to dance more. This... isn’t so much dancing, as it is moving with a very large, dense mass of people when no one can see you.
Well, it is an industry. And it brings people together — to forget, to lose themselves, to do nothing but find themselves part of something black and in motion, with a voice that is a roar of pop music and gente gritando. To live humanity in a way that doesn’t force them to think. To leave themselves.
It is cierto, quiero leave myself. But at the same time, I refuse to let go. Even of my greatest insecurities. Because if I let go... I lose myself. And if I lose myself, who knows if there is any getting it back?
Perhaps you can tell I’ve never gone out to the club before. Well... no me importa! I know, I know I could have left later, could be more drunk, could have danced with more boys... But I will cling to myself to the end. The boliche takes my money, but I swear it won’t take myself.