tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56178572008-07-21T13:47:27.033-03:00Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-19026290650425022732008-06-08T21:07:00.003-03:002008-06-08T21:21:48.837-03:00

Tonight, River became the champion of Argentina's soccer league. Fans mobbed the Obelisk as I walked home, blocking traffic on 9 de Julio, the largest street in Buenos Aires. Now at home in my apartment, I can still hear people yelling outside.

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-90471862372191353292008-06-08T17:59:00.002-03:002008-06-08T18:02:31.106-03:00

Just to get out of the apartment today, I walked a block north and a block east to a café and sat in a low couch by the window, full of the afternoon sun. I took one of the copies of the Clarín—the most popular newspaper—and began to read. The head line on the front page is the same, essentially, as it has been for the last three months. Striking Farmers Block Roads, Government Doesn’t Budge.

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-65858862965865279352008-05-22T21:04:00.002-03:002008-05-22T21:08:17.278-03:00

My short story "Cherry on a Spoon" was published this morning in the Rake, a magazine I used to read in college, based in Minneapolis, MN. This is my first time being published, so please excuse the blatant self promotion. Really, it is just happiness. www.rakemag.com

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-34661811898372639542008-04-29T11:17:00.005-03:002008-04-29T16:04:50.037-03:00

When I enter the wood paneled cafe, my first thought is that it smells like breakfast. Perhaps I notice it so strongly because it is cold outside, and the warm air feels heavier, thicker with the smells of coffee, bread, and butter. The chairs around me are green and red leather, tacked with brass buttons into the wooden chair frames. The springs in my seat are shot, and I settle with a thump.

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-56329694006474389602008-04-26T15:53:00.003-03:002008-06-08T21:27:54.148-03:00

Bruce Chatwin, author of In Patagonia, wrote in a letter to his wife that in Patagonia, “The Almighty has been playing at making Neapolitan ice cream. Imagine climbing (as I did) a cliff face 2000 feet high alternatively stripped vanilla, strawberry, and pistachio.” Each geologic layer of rock distinctly different in color, they are flavors—eras—that border but do not infiltrate each other. The

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-89590318574249998632008-04-04T10:29:00.005-03:002008-04-04T10:48:42.849-03:00

I love purée de calabaza. In English, puréed squash, but because I ate it here first, it will always be calabaza to me, just like chard will always be acelga. Calabaza is a subtle, healthy side to a rich chorizo but can also be buttery and light as the top half of a squash and chard tarta (essentially a vegetable pie). When I leave Argentina, I want to be able to make at least a few of the

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-27711672036935743212008-04-03T15:18:00.002-03:002008-04-03T15:21:27.769-03:00

I learned a new vocabulary word today from a student of mine. Tregua. It means truce. Say it like agua, she explained, telling me that the government and the farmers have called a thirty day truce to allow negotiations and goods to flow. This kind of thing is always happening, she told me. It just changes topics.

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-36738978128239229732008-04-02T19:16:00.001-03:002008-04-02T19:18:39.125-03:00

Despite the fact that I live in Buenos Aires, I still find myself scanning the New York Times in hopes of finding an article to explain what is going here. I could read El Clarín or La Nación to get the details—in fact I have—but what I need isn’t the details, it’s the background story. Right now, the country is in a gridlock. Angry farmers from the provinces are blocking the roads into Buenos

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-51520557575674966892008-03-21T11:58:00.001-03:002008-03-21T12:49:08.776-03:00

Article from March 16, 2008 http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/03/16/travel/16buenos.html?ref=travel Eleven o’clock and eating dinner on Maryann’s terrace, we made fun of the recent New York Times article on Buenos Aires. Quoting phrases that described the city as “a throbbing hothouse of cool,” we joked about what life was like in the edgy city to which the article was directing its slightly worn

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-57991687919006828882008-03-18T21:34:00.000-03:002008-03-21T12:02:01.777-03:00

The day before St. Patrick’s day, I asked an Argentine friend of mine when I should plan on getting to Kilkenny’s, one of the city’s most well known Irish pubs. “Probably seven,” he told me, and I simply didn’t believe him. Nothing in Buenos Aires starts at seven. When I told my American friends that we should be there by seven, they blew me off. Eight at least. But someone had dance class until

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-79576195963245255632008-03-17T18:45:00.001-03:002008-03-17T18:46:59.078-03:00

I ran across this comic on xkcd and thought it was very true. How does changing our lives into blog entries affect the ways in which we live our lives? http://xkcd.com/77/

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-325817950914702132008-03-02T17:32:00.001-02:002008-03-02T17:36:06.968-02:00

Carnival in Gualeguaychú stretches the town’s seams, and seams are what the provinces of Argentina have in abundance. Store fronts are painted bright yellows and greens, but the pain stops at the front; the sides are naked brick. When stores share a single building, thick cement lines run between the various colors. No one’s paint infringes on the neutral space between the two; no one has the

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-20548652965544465452008-02-06T14:55:00.005-02:002008-03-02T17:40:14.863-02:00

Carnival. Carne vale. Goodbye to meat. The taxi-driver kept asking, why do you choose to suffer? He kept shaking his head, life is difficult. Very difficult. As I gulped in the back of the taxi—goodbye to meat. The freeway leading back into Buenos Aires passes bright office buildings and dark villas. ¿Por qué quieres sufrir? Es difícil la vida, muy difícil. You should go home.

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-76899090056708932292007-12-27T12:57:00.000-03:002008-03-04T12:58:04.560-02:00

The sounds of firecrackers igniting across the city began in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and reached a crescendo at midnight. From my bed looking out my window, I could hear and see them. Pink lanterns, particularly beautiful firecrackers, floated slowly over the rooftops, rising and falling with their insides full of flames, waiting to land on something or someone flammable. For the week

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-75969659787428013632007-12-07T19:50:00.000-03:002007-12-08T14:48:15.475-03:00

The rain yesterday broke the humidity; today’s heat is dry and the sky is perfectly clear. I’m sitting in the Plaza de Mayo watching men on scaffolds put up Christmas lights in their wife-beaters. They are dripping sweat. I can only imagine that the little green and red lights, when they are finally all hung and lit, will clash with the Casa Rosada’s new coat of Pepto Bismal colored paint.

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-15527115007637222822007-11-30T19:14:00.000-03:002007-12-12T17:34:45.262-03:00

The Jane Austen Society of Buenos Aires, as I discovered today at 5 o’clock, could only loosely be described as a society. The President, Publicity, and Writing greeted me at the door of the President’s apartment, their backs hunched over but eyes bright. The first thing they said to me when I opened the door was, “Gwen? Ah! You are a baby!” And then, amid welcoming chatter in English and Spanish

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-80763568463724644872007-11-24T18:13:00.000-03:002007-11-24T18:15:00.868-03:00

This week, my life in Buenos Aires finally became a life, not an extension of a vacation or an experience outside of mundane time. I no longer felt like I was watching myself live in a foreign city, awkwardly awed, taking notes, and being noted as a tourist by everyone I passed. Tourists give themselves away by looking from side to side when they walk, mesmerized by the sweet smell of bread

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-7959987951478733182007-11-11T12:44:00.000-03:002007-11-11T21:48:38.518-03:00

Last night my friend Anna and I went to a barrio I have never seen before, on the outer edge of the city. The subway doesn't go there, so we took bus 71. The bus dropped us off on the corner of Monroe and F.D. Roosevelt and we walked a few blocks until we found the former pizzeria, across from some railroad tracks. From half a block away, it looked abandoned and dark; the sign above the

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-33928152022018633062007-11-10T12:06:00.000-03:002007-11-11T22:10:18.126-03:00

Today marks the one month anniversary of my time in Buenos Aires. I arrived 31 days ago, on a Wednesday in the rain. Today is cool but bright and sunny. Today also marks my first payday, or would, if it wasn't Saturday, since I get paid on the tenth of each month. My first pay check in pesos! At the moment, I am sitting in front of my computer in my bathrobe, listening to the String Section

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-86984360783246084032007-11-04T22:05:00.000-03:002007-11-11T21:59:12.724-03:00

I walk a lot in this city. Today was surprisingly cool, a full ten degrees colder than yesterday. It felt almost like fall, which made me homesick for the Midwest, where fall is now falling seriously into winter. Because it was crisp and sunny, I went for a long walk in the afternoon. From my house I wandered north, through Palermo. Everything was unusually quiet because it was Sunday; the

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-88324281665247372432007-11-03T18:51:00.000-03:002007-11-11T20:57:32.174-03:00

Halloween is creeping up on Argentina with all the stealth of the Creature of the Black Lagoon. Not a holiday traditionally celebrated here, many stores are unable to pass up the opportunity to boost sales by selling Halloween themed candy. Some stores even decorated with orange and black. While Argentines don't seem particularly interested in the holiday, it is hard to resist an excuse to

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-56237079090729242682007-10-20T15:47:00.000-03:002007-10-23T12:58:59.806-03:00

In my first week in Buenos Aires I saw three different tangos. My first experience was with a tango orchestra playing on the street in San Telmo. The pedestrian street was full of people in both directions, all strolling between blankets of crafts and stands selling roasted nuts. It was a cool afternoon, one of the last cool afternoons, it seems, as the days here get more humid and hot. My

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-40744725966473447532007-10-13T20:37:00.000-03:002007-10-14T12:28:50.440-03:00

Since in my first three days in Argentina it has rained probably 70% of my waking hours, it seems most logical for the my next entry to describe apartment. I have gone outside of course, but my outings haven't been those of a tourist. I went out to buy chocolate with Hannah late at night, to buy a cell phone, to go to the store when we were out of apples. On my first day here I went outside

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5617857.post-9668219297036052992007-10-12T00:03:00.001-03:002008-05-21T09:20:01.476-03:00

It is 3 minutes past midnight on my first full day in Buenos Aires. My mind is tired; it can't decide what language it should be using. I forget how easy it is when I am speaking Spanish to get halfway into a sentence and realize that I don't know the word or the verb tense to get me back out of the sentence again. There is always a lot of starting over. And since I am once again starting over,

Gwen E. Kirbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14638865012026130738noreply@blogger.com