Forlorn statue within the Monumento a Perpetuidad cemetery of Paysandú
Since noticing the distinct morning rituals of my host mother and myself, I have since been forced to question the other differences that set me apart from others. The week of la semana santa, or Easter Holiday (Thursday, April 14th – Saturday, April 23rd), I spent the break traveling to Salto, Iguazu, and Paysandú with Fabiola from Mississippi, Megan from Wisconsin, Daniela from Germany, and for the Paysandú portion of our journey, Kelsey from North Carolina. Although we spent the first few days in Salto speaking Spanish, we used English to communicate throughout the majority of our adventures. I didn’t mind because it was an amazing opportunity to ask slightly deeper questions and learn more about myself. But once again I found out my own character traits were a long shot and then some from the ladies’ idealistic attributes in guys, from boyfriends, from new people we met in hostels, and from the assimilating expectations of a traveling extranjero o foreigner.
Looking out on el Rio Uruguay in Salto
My favorite activities in Salto: Relaxing and watching television in Spanish, meeting some architects who have traveled around the entire world, foosball, relaxing at las termas and running in a rain storm near el rio Paraguay and letting out cries of exultation when the rain grew more and more furious. Least favorite activities in Salto: Extreme discomfort at the boliche, the motocicletas or motorcycles without mufflers (they cannot be escaped), and some of the conversations exchanged at las termas.
Running in that rain storm would possibly be #53 to add to the list defining me. But even still, I’m forced to ask this complicated, confusing question: What characteristics do I change about myself and what do I keep the same? Or worded differently, when and where do I stay rooted and absolutely immovable in my opinions, qualities, and preferences, and when and where do I keep an open mind? While traveling abroad in another country, my goal is to stay open to a different way to living life. As ways of learning about this new environment, I have elected to stop being a vegetarian, to speak in Spanish instead of English, to keep maybe 5% of my clothes to live off of, to give up cereal for breakfast, to stop taking creative writing classes for the first time in just under three years, to be more social, to eat dinner at 9 pm, and to give up the freedom of a vehicle. Small changes. Big impacts.
In Salto, in the attempt to keep going with the Uruguayan flow, Fabiola, Megan, and I decided to go to a boliche or dance club to check out the night life. Raúl, the owner and/or director of our hostel ended up going with us as well. To cut to the unpleasant chase, or make the long story short or [enter preferred cliché] I ended up feeling incredibly … misplaced. In the past I’ve learned to take dancing outings one step at a time. During my first high school dance, I was so nervous that I destroyed my tie from tugging on it. I didn’t know what to do with my hands … let alone my solid brick feet or flopping sense of rhythm. Therefore, I have since learned to take a step back and study (yes, actually study) the roles that the different characters play: the girls happy to move to the beat, the guys lucky enough to accompany them, the freak-outs in the corner, the repetitive two steppers meandering through the crowds and so on. Taking a look around and about the boliche of Salto, I was unable to find a role. We had the classic girls that “just want to have fun,” and the prowlers. That was it. A line of people aged over 30 stood around the outskirts (including Raúl), a pack of girls danced near the middle, Fabiola and Meghan faced each other and joined in to the beat of the music, and the younger men moved in to attack (sliding behind a girl, taking an arm, twisting to the front, etc.). The girls are there to feel sexy, wanted, happy, and rhythmic. The guys are there because they want to be one of the lucky ones: meaning sex or first base at the very least. I didn’t belong, so I bailed.
The pool of Hostel-Inn Iguazu. Amazing!!!
The next travel destination was Iguazu, my favorite of the three places we traveled. Favorite activities: Liquid mist, watching what I’m remembering as a slow-motion attack of coatis (small panda/raccoon animals) upon Daniela’s bag of crackers – note: I must come back to write narrate this event at a later date -- , monkeys, sprawling breakfasts at the hostel, the pool at the hostel, the smile I received when I spoke (extranjero identified), making our own exquisite dinner, and helping others with random odds and ends (looking for some lost keys, lighting the kitchen stove, turning off running faucet water). Least favorite activities: The extreme tourism at the falls, a failed attempt at forming a soccer match (South America’s common unifier failed me), getting swindled by taxi drivers (we came out with a good deal but there was still this sense and smell of dank, wet money), and conversations in English about who we are as students, masculine, feminine, republicans, democrats, revolutionaries, academics, moral representatives, and personalities.
Once again the same theme came up: what defines us? The girls I was traveling with had some fierce arguments whilst lying around the pool. I kid you not; it was like their charisma stat was boosted by 5 times its regular level by sitting near the glowing blue aura of the pool. One minute politics, the next character traits, and then they were talking about their least favorite attributes in men: a weak personality, voiceless, too nice, physical qualities and so forth. “A strong personality,” they said, making the point that it’s expected that the person argues for his point of view or his outlook. Again I was a shocked; not by what they were saying but by taking another look at myself: a twenty-two year old boy acting cordial in a new country; timid with the history of an introvert, altogether incredibly open for new concepts, and coming to the debilitating realization that is a weak personality.
The portal into Beer Fest Paysandú
Next up, Paysandú. Favorite activities: The sights along the bus ride (my female friend pointing out a lady with the most astounding hind quarters she had ever seen), the high class breakfast at the hotel (quality Dulce de Leche, how I missed you), riding the Tree Swings and Ferris Wheel at the Beer Festival, going for a run on Saturday morning after 4 hours of sleep and later feeling my entire body floating in misaligned directions, and the first 20 minutes of dancing at the boliche or dance club. Least favorite activities: the final 3½ hours of dancing at the boliche, music at the Beer Fest, the scam artist taxi driver, momentarily losing my camera, and paying the price for staying at a hostel as opposed to a hostel (ouch).
Once again, I had to find out a method of approach for enjoying myself at the boliche. The last time in Salto, I had entered the dance club with little or no enthusiasm. This time, in Paysandú, and especially during the Beer Festival, I decided to go at it with a little more gusto. First, in studying the scene, I found a large crowd of people hanging closer to the bar then the exit and surrounding a large dancing square at the center of the room, waiting, waiting. Many of the guys were scouting the area for ladies while whispering jokes with each other. The word “boludo” was used more than once. The girls were moving slowly with the music, not dancing but nearly there.
Second, a group of guys was standing between me and the girls’ bathroom, waiting for the foreign exchange student ladies (some with blonde hair) to come out. These guys made passing jokes to me as if sizing me up for competitions to woo the foreign girls. It became obvious to me that none of them were interested in actually socializing but rather were debating and negotiation which guy was going to go for which girl.
Third, I had enough drinks in me to feel comfortable with the environment. For that time period, it didn’t matter that I didn’t have a role among the many players of the boliche. I could stand out. So I did. Closing in on 12:30 am, I started dancing at the center of the square: a quick-motioned Americanized way of dancing with arms sliding, feet moving laterally, and my shoulder bobbing and much more prominent than the restricted sway of my hips. I was alone and a lot of people were watching.
I had remembered what my traveling compañeras had said about guys having strong personalities and this test of courage, or whatever you may want to call it, may have been an attempt at reaching out for that identity. It also may have been more spontaneous. I danced for maybe 7 – 8 minutes before Fabiola addressed me from the side of the square, not moving so close as to actually enter the dancing area, and she called me back out by motioning with a quick wave of her hand. For me, that was where my spontaneous role ended. The night developed into the same guy chase girl situation as in Salto leaving me feeling displaced. My attempt at displaying a show of bravery was nothing more than an awkward yankee-ism in the eyes of the other dancers.
The following morning, after sleeping for four hours, I decided to go for a run. In a similar way with the dance of the night before, I had to do something different; something that many other people might not consider normal. I didn’t realize it while I was running that morning (My thoughts were distracted when I randomly ran into a group of other foreign exchange students studying at the Catolic a in Montevideo – more proof of a small world), but I was exploring the very same question I set out to answer by writing this blog entry: “What characteristics do I change about myself and what do I keep the same?” And at this conclusion, I still don’t have a good answer. Plato argued that one theme and comparative analysis in the search for identity, androgyny, comes from the original form of the humankind: a combination of the man and the woman in the same form. It was a natural tendency to make this comparison, he may have said, because of our ancestral connection. The theme exists because we are instinctually interested in it. I need to do some things, on occasion, to set myself apart from others (like running at obscure hours, dancing oddly and alone, and making a list of the factors that determine me from “new socks” to “slinkies”). I have an occasional “strong personality.” And why do I do this? Why do I stay firm with some parts of who I am while allowing others to change? Because my instinctual tendencies meet with my social surroundings and they explode like the end of the waterfall’s cascade, where it first smashes against the water, and repeats endlessly. Constant explosions.
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