This morning, I came across striking workers on my way to class. They’d taken over the building, closed it down, barring the door shut with a piece of wood. Being here for just a few days, I wasn�t entirely capable of getting the full story, but I snapped a few pictures and talked to some people to get a gist of what was going on.

For the record, no one at IES was surprised when I told them this. From what I understand, strikes are a common thing in Buenos Aires.

Regardless, I think they worked for Obra Social para la Actividad Docente (OSPLAD), or a health insurance company for teachers. They’ve been requesting a raise of 300 pesos to their salary of about 2000 pesos a month, as well as an additional 2% increase related to seniority. I’m still catching my bearings on a lot of things, so the details are unclear.

I do know that nurses and doctors were on strike, and that they’ve been trying to negotiate since April. What was also clear was that the workers aren’t satisfied with their conditions. The people  I spoke to said that there’s a shortage of nurses – they need about 50 more than their current 213 to run the hospital properly – that there aren’t enough beds for patients and that the four administrators at the building unjustly earn 10,000 pesos a month, five times the amount of an average worker.

Claudia — a nurse who wouldn’t give me her last name because her husband is a police officer or something and she doesn’t want to get him in trouble — said that once she was the only nurse on a floor where there should’ve been four.

This is all entirely subjective – I only have one side of the story, broken and incoherent at that because of my developing Spanish. Even so, this made me think about a few things more in-depth throughout the day.

In my time at Buenos Aires, I’ve felt slightly better about myself as a human being. By that, I mean that I enjoy living with less – smaller house, shorter showers (small water heater), less food (you don�t get served unreasonable amounts at restaurants), more walking. In a way, I don�t feel so guilty living here.

Oftentimes, I feel that the lifestyle at home is simply too much. It doesn�t feel right to me that people in the United States, and a lot of industrialized nations, have more than other people in the world just by virtue of where they live. I don�t work any harder than those everywhere else. Why should I be so entitled?

All that said, I bought a guitar today, and it left a bad taste in my mouth. It felt excessive to throw down 400 pesos for petty self entertainment. On the surface it might not seem so bad, but that didn’t stop me from having a bloated feeling in my chest, as if I didn’t rightfully deserve to own it.

A lot of classes here are at night here because a majority of students work full time during the day. And I feel like a bum, wandering around and taking photos everyday like I’m on some grand vacation.

Later on in the day, I met with a friend of my uncle’s at a cafe, we’ll call him Gomez, who works as a professional journalist. I asked him a lot about journalism, what he’s learned from the field, etc., and I keep hoping that maybe journalism will give me an edge to do some kind of productive work I believe in. For some reason, simply earning my way while so many other people can barely get by doesn�t feel right to me.

The two things he�s learned from journalism, which are the same things that I�ve heard from a lot of journalists:

1. He�s had opportunities to meet lots of interesting characters, and he�s found out that the similarities between people are stronger than the differences.

2. No matter what he does, nothing is ever going to change.

In any case, after the chat I went to a restaurant for dinner,  mulling these thoughts over and trying to find some exigence. I haven’t even been here a week yet, but I think being in Argentina is already helping me out.

Location: 888 Avenida Puerreydon, Buenos Aires, Argentina

After leaving Milhouse, I met my homestay señora. We ate Buenos Aires pizza for dinner. It’s delicious – packed with so much more flavor than I’m used to, complete with a little olive on each slice. It might also help that I’d had maybe one real meal in the past three days. In any case, if you go to Buenos Aires, check out that pizza. It’s worth it.

Life here in the house seems like it’ll be laid back. I can come and go from it as I please, any time of day or night. This is what I know so far — IES might tell me differently… And opening doors in Buenos Aires is extremely difficult for me. I have no idea why. The key gets stuck in the hole. I’ve spent at least twenty minutes fighting with the door to enter the homestay. You know when you watch those thriller/horror films and a guy, being pursued by some monster, needs to quickly unlock his door so he can escape to safety? You know how he takes forever? I finally feel that pain. These doors are freaking impossible.

So after eating pizza and being beaten by inanimate objects, I ventured out into the city with my camera to take pictures. I didn’t get far. I stopped at a newspaper kiosk to buy a map, and the young woman tending it – short, black-haired and with facial features that indicate Native American heritage — asked me where I was from. My Tio Rico suggested that I lie and tell everyone that I come from Peru so no one will take advantage of me. I did so, which was great, because she happened to come from Peru also.

I let out pretty soon that I was actually from the United States, which was obvious to her because of my accent. She’s only been in Buenos Aires for four months, doesn’t have working papers, citizenship, visa, anything, so she’s working under-the-table street-vending jobs – one selling newspapers, another selling clothes — being paid below minimum wage, which still turns out to be enough for her.

She said, Si no estas apurado, podemos conversar, which means, If you’re not in a hurry, we can chat. Something like that has yet to happen to me in the States — that is, no one has ever offered to just, you know, converse. So I sat down on the chair she had there and did so. We looked for our position on the map together. She still gets lost in the city, too, so it took us a while.

I ended up sitting there for probably two hours, until about 6:45 pm, talking about how she’s trying to learn English, her plans to attend school to become a nurse, our love for learning languages and meeting people from different cultures. A bunch of bicyclers passed by at one point, which is where the picture comes from.

We made plans to meet up when she got off work at 8:30 to find one of her friends and travel the city. I went back home, met my señora’s 9-year-old son, put away all my clothes, then went back to the kiosk.

Fiorella – that’s the name I´ll use for her privacy – just had to wait for the owner of the kiosk to come by and close up shop. The guy came after a few minutes and we then headed up toward Plaza 11, passing some beautiful and not-so-beautiful parts of the city on the way. She’s in the process of moving into a new apartment, and entering into the building, it seemed a little grimy and dungy for a person like me who’s been spoiled in the States. The tiles in the communal kitchen were broken and splitting, the sink was stained with brown speckles, the plaster on the walls was torn, etc. For some reason the owner changed the locks on her apartment door so we couldn’t get inside. It’s actually an ordeal she’s dealing with, the minor details of which I won’t even try to explain because it’s a headache.

In the end, we never met her friend. We waited for a few hours, until about 11:30, chatting at the Plaza 11. Fiorella is a strong Evangelical Christian, and we talked for a long time about religion and spirituality, my relationship with Catholicism and the brushes I’ve had with atheism, the latter because of my comparative literature classes and two atheist roommates last year.

It seemed risky or somewhat stupid, walking with a stranger across the city to a place I didn’t know. One of the things Manu Chao says, though — not to glorify him or anything but I think his words ring true — is that you have to be willing to trust people. He says you can listen to what people say about certain areas being “bad,” but then you have to forget everything and go there anyway. You can’t be afraid to open yourself up. I’ve read some vagabond travelers’ blogs and they say the same thing. Every once in a while you might get robbed or exploited or whatever, but you’ll find that most people in the world are genuine and helpful. I guess you just have to decide if that’s a risk you’re willing to take.

That said, it was really cold but Fiorella and I kept walking and chatting. She has a book of English, and as she’s trying to learn, she read it out loud while I helped her with pronunciation (she’s good at writing it, not so much speaking it because nothing in English sounds the way it’s spelled).

She said there are youth gatherings on Saturdays with her church — playing music, conversing, dancing. I’ll probably be going there this weekend. Because of a situation with her friend, we didn’t end up doing anything tonight, but tomorrow we’re going to play some juegos or games in some place, something that involves driving cars…? I still have yet to understand what she means by that.

I took my first bus ride in Buenos Aires getting back home. I’m pretty glad I decided to stay and chat with her, as the things we talked about seemed something I needed. Out of habit, I actually brought some rosary beads to Buenos Aires and they’re currently draped over one of the bedposts. Not sure what that means, but I do love talking about faith or lack thereof – always fascinates me.

The IES program starts in the morning with an orientation. I honestly think school often interferes with education, but I suppose that’s just the way life is.

I’m falling in love with this city.

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Location: Avenida de Paraguay, Buenos Aires, Argentina