“Oh Tina, you silly girl,” everybody at the table says, laughing, “that’s so cute that you think it doesn’t matter if you go outside right after you eat.  Chuckle chuckle, ha ha ha ha ha.  Everybody knows that if you go outside after a meal you get la congestione!”*

Six months later…. I’m on an air-conditioned shuttle bus, covering myself with a shawl, with a tummy ache, and frantically text-messaging a friend, “I ate lunch and then walked and then sat next to the air conditioning!  I think I have la congestione!”

*La congestione: an Italian phenomenon that takes place if you don’t allow for digestion to fully take place after you eat and go be where it’s cold, or go swimming, go where you might sweat from heat and make yourself cold, or really any sort of environment that has anything to do with being cold.  Apparently, it messes everything up as when you digest all your blood is concentrated on your digestive system.  When you go into a cold environment the blood distributes to the rest of your body to keep you warm and digestion is blocked.  Which is why you should always wear a scarf!  As a bonus, you could also get the influenza (not to be confused with the common flu), which is an Italian flu-like phenomenon that lasts exactly two days.  Remember, cold is evil!

While some people relocate to just one country, there are others who, like me, have changed country/continent of residence several times.  My first living abroad experience was in Switzerland in 2002… later I lived in Italy, then Argentina, and now I’m in Italy again.  With the exception of Switzerland, which, while beautiful, was just not my cup of tea, my identity has become so intertwined with the places I lived that I have no idea what to say when people ask where I’m from (which happens often here).  Having two passports does not make things any less complicated.

It’s rather entertaining when they try to guess.  Germany? France?  Uruguay? (Yes, someone in Italy asked if I was from Uruguay and I have yet to understand why.)  They can’t always tell where my strange accent in their language comes from (because it’s mine, all mine!), and I don’t encompass a “typical look” of any one place.

My answer, like Chantal’s, is “it’s complicated”.   This usually draws the curiosity of the asker, and I am launched into my story.  Responses I get are usually in line with “Oh yes, I totally knew it”, which makes me chuckle.

A while ago, a friend shared this video. It’s Argentine and the song is called “De donde sos?” …which means, “Where are you from?”.  It’s sweet and silly (and the guy singing it is cute) and I thought it was perfect for this post.  It defines my “expat type” – the whole reason I started moving abroad in the first place was because I wanted to become part of a place from the inside. What happens really is that the place becomes a part of me and stays that way.

How do YOU answer when people ask where you’re from?

*This post was written for AffordableCallingCards.net, the expat community site. You can click here to read more posts about expat life written by myself and other bloggers.

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you:

But when the leaves hand trembling

The wind is passing thro’

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I:

But when the trees bow down their heads

The wind is passing by.

I wonder if there is a Southern Italian version involving the various winds that we have down here.  How do you make the phrase: “When your curls are extra curly and your patio is covered in Saharan dust it’s probably the Scirocco” rhyme?  Or “When, despite the warm weather and sun, the wind makes your skin shiver it’s probably the Tramontana and you’d do best to drive a ways and take a dip in the Ionian Sea”…?

Growing up in Seattle, I never knew the wind to have different names, only because it wasn’t part of our culture to speak of the wind in such a way.  As far as I was concerned, it was a language reserved for deep sea fishermen.  Here, however, people base their activities on the wind, and every wind from every direction has a name that everyone knows, rendering it exotic.  The Levante, the Tramontana, the Scirocco (my favorite), the Maestro, among others.  I can’t keep them straight!

The two winds I do know very well by now are the Scirocco from Africa (my apartment stays humid, and outside the wind is warm and pleasant, though at times so strong it’s a nuisance to my hair, which I just throw into a bun) and the Tramontana from the north (it’s a cool wind but that’s when we choose the Ionian Sea over the Adriatic and have the loveliest beach days).

It’s rather impressive to me that such importance is given to the wind.  It’s something I love about living in the Mediterranean – here, there is a connection with nature that seems truly ancient.  From the wind to the soil to the sea to the phases of the moon.

How do people relate to nature where you live?

*This post was written for AffordableCallingCards.net, the expat community site. You can click here to read more posts about expat life written by myself and other bloggers.

I’m sitting in a cozy café in Seattle, drinking my caffè latte, working and enjoying the whir of the espresso machine in the background.  On my left is a big window looking out to the sidewalk.  I see people walking to work, the bus, the market.  I’m contemplating moving over to that big comfy couch over there and snuggling up with my laptop to finish this translation.  It took the barista 7 minutes to make my caffè latte, which is normal since it’s not “rush hour”.  It’s 10:30 am, and there aren’t many people in the café.  Yesterday it took 10 minutes.  People order their drinks and then settle down with their computers.  It’s a relaxed atmosphere. The barista takes her time and we have time.  Sometimes people go up to the counter and chat with the barista.  It’s always fun to eavesdrop.

In Italy, I am walking through the historic center on my way to work or a class, or perhaps to meet someone.  I realize that the coffee I made at home just didn’t do the trick, and it would be nice to have just a teeny bit more caffeine.  I have 5 minutes before I have to be where I’m going.  I duck into a bar (where you get coffee), go to the cash register, tell the cashier I want “un caffè” (which is what you say when you want a shot of espresso), and pay.  I bring my receipt to the barista, who presents me with a little cup with my dear espresso in less time than it takes me to say “caffè”.  I down my caffè standing up (to sit down, I’d have to pay extra) and continue to my destination.  I haven’t even spent 5 minutes in the bar.

In Argentina, I enter the cafe on the corner and pick a table near the window.  Eventually the mozo, waiter, approaches me and I ask for “un cortado” – a cortado is kind of like a caffè macchiato.  He soon returns with a full tray, and one at a time, he sets my cortado, a small glass of sparkling water, a little plate of cookies and the sugar on the table.  I say “Gracias” like I always do, the waiter says “No, a vos” and I take my first sip, slouch onto the table like everyone else in the café, and look out the window.  I could spend 3 or 4 hours in here and never feel pressured to leave or spend more money than I have.  I eventually decide it’s time to go, and catch the waiter’s eye.  Once we lock eyes, we nod at each other and he comes to the table (just like in a milonga).  I ask for la cuenta, the check, and pay him, batting my eyelashes in the hope that he’ll give me some coins with my change so I can take the bus.

What’s the café culture like where you live?

*This post was written for AffordableCallingCards.net, the expat community site. You can click here to read more posts about expat life written by myself and other bloggers.

It’s not a complaint, just an observation, though I do have strong opinions.  One cultural difference I’ve noticed lately is the food culture.  In the U.S., this is definitely a culture of large portion sizes and snacking.  There really is an obesity epidemic (of course this can be tied to a lot of causes and I’m no expert, so can’t get into it here).  I don’t remember really seeing much obesity in Argentina, apart from a few rare occasions.  I’m not exactly the picture of self-restraint when it comes to eating (oh do I love to eat), but when out in public, I’ve noticed that the average person eats probably three times more than I do (and I eat plenty), and most of the time it’s food for which I could not begin to identify the ingredients.

It took me a while to notice that, because my circle of friends here is a rather international mix of Tango dancers and foodies, who relish in choosing good ingredients, cooking with love, and surrounding themselves with friends with whom they can share their creations.  That, and Seattle is a goldmine of beautiful ingredients for cooking.  It’s a great place for picking up healthy habits and being creative with food.

But recently I was on a cross-country trip because of my uncle’s wedding (which I’ll write about later, it was a wonderful trip to Rhode Island), and on the airplane as well as in the connecting airport I noticed some eating habits that surprised me.  Is it really necessary to down a cheeseburger (and fries) at 6 in the morning?  Do we really have to gorge on all the artificial snacks on the flight and then have a big lunch at the connecting airport, only to gorge on more snacks on the connecting flight?  At the connecting airport I saw random people at my gate and other gates, loading themselves with piles and piles of faux food and telling each other “we’d better eat all of this so we’re not hungry when we land”.  The thing is, these people were waiting for flights lasting not more than two hours.  Couldn’t they wait and eat real food at their destination when they actually *were* hungry?

People can do whatever they want and I won’t judge, but this just isn’t healthy for the human body and can cause medical problems further down the line.

The other thing I’ve noticed here is that it’s really hard to get together with people.  Me included.  When I’m in Argentina or Italy I’m much easier to get a hold of.  And so is everyone around me.  It’s very much a culture where people make plans with little notice, from “Hey, do you want to have coffee tomorrow?” to “I’m having an asado tonight, wanna come?”. – These are people with lives, jobs, families, worries.  Yet they somehow make time to see each other.

In the States, people say things to each other like “Sure, I’d love to get together. I’m available in three months.”  – This really happens!  People are so “busy”.  And I’ll admit, it’s hard not to fall into the pattern.  I almost get that way too when I’m here.  I try really hard not to, though.

The people I know from Tango seem to be an exception – they’re all pretty spontaneous and passionate about life (it’s true!) and I see them frequently because it’s not too hard to bring these folks together – particularly when beautiful tango music is guaranteed to at least be playing in the background.

I have a hard time in general making plans too far in advance (especially three months).  Due to the ever-changing nature of my work and also due to my dancing, the best way to see me is to ask me what I’m doing in the next few days to a week.  If I make plans too far in advance I end up canceling them because something always comes up.  And I’ll admit that I’m just terrible lately – there are friends who have been trying to track me down to get together, and I’m just all over the place.  I’m not perfect at all in this regard.  But there really is a cultural difference when it comes to making plans.

Those are the two main things I’ve been thinking about lately.  I could get into other differences I’ve noticed, but I’ll save that for another time.  Right now I have a translation and would like to write about my trip to Rhode Island in my next post.  Also, Tango Magic (Seattle’s tango festival) is coming up!!

I closed my eyes and thought of the streets in my neighborhood, Paternal, quiet and lazy, with the occasional truck passing slowly through, the driver spewing announcements (publicity perhaps?) with a megaphone.  I thought of the milongas, particularly the one I go to every week, the music playing just a bit too loud, the people I get to so lovingly embrace on a regular basis with their different cologne smells, embracing me back.

I thought of the colectivos, buses, that cruise through the streets of Buenos Aires, always full at all hours, full of people who do this every day, who are tired after a day of work, or perhaps tired from another day of no work.

I thought of the train through the province, the people that get on to sell things, barefoot children in tow, perhaps this being their only income, and the passengers who are perhaps more accustomed than I am to the contradictions outside the window, of poverty and shantytowns right next to the homes of the well-off.  I thought of the strange, “wild-west” feeling when I get off the train in a certain little town in the province, the little center that seems to have been thrown together with whatever available materials but is bustling nonetheless.

I thought of the cypresses at Chacarita which, while not quite as old and knowing as the ones in Italy, give me comfort.  I thought of the gasista who came to upgrade our gaslines and did his work but then left all his equipment in the house and has not come back for it.  I thought of the construction worker outside who was humming “Naranjo en Flor” while he hammered away, a favorite Tango of mine.  I thought of the essence of Tango that oozes through the city in the most unexpected places and how I feel sorry for people who are too skeptical or ignorant to notice it.

I thought of the way I feel when I dance in the magical milonga of La Glorieta and look out from the gazebo and see apartment buildings peaking out from behind the trees.  I thought of Argentine cumbia and how while I don’t like it too much, it is definitely a part of this city and its identity, in a strange way.

I thought of my terrace and my sage plant, the strong Argentine sun that makes the terracotta tiles too hot.  I thought about the facial expressions and posture of people in cafes, and how some people here really have seen the worst.

I thought of how freely the women down here move their bodies when they dance, and how some of the critical tango tourists I’ve met would never really understand that what they are seeing really IS tango, and that regardless of their expectations, it is a dance of the people of this city.  I thought about the Spanish I speak every day when running errands, out and about, and how it’s always so heartwarming to hear people say “no, a vos” after I say, “gracias”.  I thought of the waitress in the little restaurant in my neighborhood and her natural beauty and laid-back way of saying and doing things that just makes you so comfortable.

I thought of all the growth I have experienced while being here.  I thought about the wonderful visitors I’ve met with who have a curiosity similar to mine, and what a joy it is to share with them.  I thought about how lucky I am because a lot of foreigners would never have the chance (or perhaps desire) to go beyond their own preconceptions of Buenos Aires and really experience it for what it is.

These are the things I thought of but I just couldn’t come up with the words.  All of these visions flashed before me and struck my heart and, speechless, I began to cry.

Dear innocent, unsuspecting newbie to the traditional milongas of Buenos Aires, a few suggestions to make your transition into milonguera life a bit smoother.

1. It’s winter in Buenos Aires and very cold at night, so you subject yourself to throwing on a pair of trousers under that dress for the cold commute between home and the milonga.  I totally understand that and have done it myself.  We all do it.  When it’s cold it’s cold.

But what makes you think it’s logical and classy to change OUT of your trousers in front of everyone at the milonga?  What makes you think we want to be distracted from cabeceo-ing to watch you hike up your dress and pull down your pants?  And I know you think you are being discreet, but the traditional milongas are very well-lit, and do you think for a minute that the men don’t notice it?  Because they do.  If only you knew what they were thinking.  Then again, maybe you don’t want to know.

Maybe this was okay to do at your practica in your hometown.  But you’re not there anymore.  You’re in Buenos Aires.  And you’re not at a practica you are at a milonga.  Here, it’s about how you present yourself.  People here make a special occasion of their favorite Saturday night milonga.  Look around you at how people behave.  They dress in nice, clean clothes, they smell good, they present themselves nicely. Ever hear of the Italian expression, La Bella Figura? (Making a good impression, basically…) Well it applies here too, in terms of how you behave and present yourself in the milongas.  That’s just the way it is.

Tip: the bathroom is right there.  Just a few steps away.  This means that when you arrive you can saunter over to the ladies’ room and pull down your trousers to your heart’s content.  Your friends at the milonga thank you for politely observing this.  If you have a problem with this or wish to leave said trousers on under your dress (something I must admit I have never understood), maybe traditional milongas are not for you.  Try Villa Malcolm. It’s much more casual, and also very dark.

~~~

2. Some folks have an issue about dancers changing their shoes at the table.  I honestly don’t care where you change yours shoes as long you are discreet and there is enough space for you to do so without knocking your head into the table next to you and causing water to spill.  But what I DO have an issue with is this:  do you really think it’s attractive to hoist your foot on your knee and rub foot powder into your foot, between your toes, all around, put your tango shoes on and then get up to dance without even washing your hands?  Ick!

Tip:  Well, I think it goes without saying.  But I’ll say it anyway:  If you must rub any sort of substance into your feet, do so in the ladies room and WASH YOUR HANDS.

I know there are a lot of codigos to remember in the traditional milongas, but it doesn’t take a set of rules to know what’s simply logical.  The above behaviors I have mentioned don’t even need codigos, they are just basic common sense.

And now you are just about ready to milonguear…

Here we call them verdulerias. They are all over the place here, in just about every neighborhood.

On my block there are two verdulerias that I like, depending on what I need. One is right downstairs (well, on my street anyway) and one is around the corner. I mostly go to the one downstairs because the verdulero is just wonderful with me. He helps me learn the Spanish names for the various items and he is patient with me. I never touch the produce, he picks it out for me – and he really knows what he’s doing. I’m always happy with what I get.

He also will sometimes suggest things that are particularly good right now, or steer me away from something that might be just average. He always knows where something came from. If the price of a particular item has inflated a lot (which happens here), he will tell me right away and give me a chance to decide if I really want it (or that much of it).

It’s something I’ve always loved to do. In Seattle there is Pike Place Market which Seattle residents enjoy in the winter and avoid in the tourist-filled summer. Pike Place can get expensive though, so there are also local farmers markets in most Seattle neighborhoods that I found a lot of times to be more affordable (and delicious!) than the supposed “organic” sections in the supermarkets.

I always try to buy produce from markets/ortolani/verdulerias because it’s fresh, in season, (mostly) local, harvested when ripe, rather than supermarket produce that lacks luster and is kind of sad to look at under fluorescent lighting.

There is something romantic and so human about being able to walk a few steps down the street, and make contact with another human being as they personally help me pick out fruits and vegetables.

There is something quite satisfying about coming home with colorful vegetables that still have their dirt-covered roots in tact. Something so natural and real about having fruit that has seeds (read: non-GM) and tons of flavor. (Might I add that the grapefruits here are the possibly best I’ve ever had?)

Since getting over my linguistic shyness that prevented me from going into verdulerias and finally taking advantage of the ready availability of delicious, nourishing produce, my energy level has gone up, my skin is clearer than ever (a side benefit of eating more fruits and vegetables) and I have been more inspired to cook interesting things.

We also have a butcher in the same location (I’m finally over that linguistic fear too and have started going), and across the street there is a panederia, bakery, where one can buy some different kinds of bread and various facturas, pastries. I realize that this way of food shopping is not possible everywhere (at least in most cities in the U.S.) so I feel fortunate, grateful, that I have it right at my fingertips.

And with that came attitude.

I didn’t notice it before but I think the past few months in Buenos Aires have really been months of personal growth for me. Both in terms of my derrière and in the way I feel about myself and present myself.

In North American culture the goal seems to be to have no ass, or any curves at all for that matter. My loved ones up here seem surprised at how excited and proud I am to have something back there to sway when I walk or dance. I guess it has something to do with living in Latin America where the woman’s body is celebrated in a different way than up north. I find myself excited to shop for new additions to my wardrobe that will show off an hourglass figure. Basta with these clothes that “slim” us down, making us look more masculine and less natural. I feel more Sophia Loren than ever.

With the new culo came a boldness to the way I walk, the way I present myself. I walked into the internet cafe in Seattle today with my new Buenos Aires strut, and loud high-heeled boots that click-clacked on the floor as I made my way to my table. It is so quiet in here but I think I’m doing everything so loudly and with such spice, from the way I settle into my chair to the way I set my cup of coffee down on the table. I’m not doing anything halfway. World, I am here!

Everyone else in the room is just quiet. Staring at their computer screens, trying not to look at me. I feel a little odd not hearing anyone hiss, “che, hermosa!”… though it’s also kind of nice to be left alone. I’m probably a bit much for these reserved people. But, so be it.

Here in Argentina, I notice something that I rarely see “up north” – the women move their hips. Watch just about any porteña walking down the street, and while it’s not exaggerated, there is a particular sway to the hips that you don’t see in Anglo countries. Go to a milonga and you’ll see the women effortlessly disassociate their hips from their upper body. And not because they were taught to. They do it because they just do. Their hips have more freedom of movement when they dance. They move grounded, connected to the earth, and they allow their feminine bodies to move as they are naturally supposed to move. (Living proof would be in my ex’s niece, who we taught to walk and do ochos as she was curious – she has never danced Tango in her life but she instinctively knew just what to do with her hips. It was amazing. I have never seen it up north. Ochos are so much nicer if you just let your hips be!)

I was always concerned with being as straight and stiff as possible with my Tango, maybe because so many people have related it to ballet for some reason. Yet since I’ve been down here and had two different private lessons (each with a different teacher), I have been told the opposite of what I’ve been trying to do and I realize that I agree with what they are telling me.

Each teacher, coming from totally different tango backgrounds, told me the same thing – to walk like a woman and let my hips be what they are (NOT to force them to move – but just to let them be hips). Both teachers told me that they see this problem quite often with North American women – we don’t move our hips naturally. We stiffen up. We are afraid to be sexy. Afraid to be labeled as whores or criticized if we let our hips sway a little.

Javier really drove this home with me in our lesson. He made note of my curves and said that I seem to dance like I’m afraid of them. Normally I’m not, but when I dance I get a little shy. So we worked on my body confidence and on walking like the woman I am. He reminded me to be proud of my hips, proud of my curves, proud of my soft tummy, proud of my breasts and to dance like it. (Not to prance or wiggle or do salsa moves – but to be ME.) He wanted me to walk “all’Italiana” (his words)… “Channel my inner Sophia Loren?” I said. He laughed, “exactly!”

Vilma, the other teacher, said more or less the same thing, but came from the point of view of being grounded, centered, connected to the earth. She made me realize how much more comfortable it is to dance if I just allow my body to dance. Embrace fully, and let your body do what it needs to do. Being ashamed of your body or being afraid of your curves or sexuality makes the dance only half of what it could be.

Whenever I return to Seattle from a place like Italy or Argentina, I notice a huge difference in the way women move. Up “north”, they walk straight and tall, striding, careful not to let the hips move even a inch. It’s like watching boxy, sexless, suppressed robots move down the street with no hint of individuality or freedom or happiness.

When I was in high school I wanted to be a model – I got a couple of jobs but it was hard as I didn’t look like a boyish waif – I looked most definitely like a woman then. I was always told NOT to move my hips at all when I walk. I remember hearing people in the industry criticizing a particular supermodel for letting her hips sway on the runway. I quit when one agent told me that my hips were too big and that I’d have to lose weight to make them smaller – um, I was quite skinny at the time so the only way to make my hips smaller would have been to perhaps remove my hip bones entirely!

I find it interesting – it’s as if women are expected to be men or boys. It’s why I flourish when I’m down here or in Italy – I find it so free and easy to be 100% woman in the way that I want to be. Curves are celebrated. Femininity is appreciated. It’s okay to be sexy. It’s okay to move your hips.

Just some observations… Let’s let my favorite Colombian-Lebanese belly dancer Shakira take over, shall we? After all, hips don’t lie…