Friday was quite a calm, relaxing day. A group of UT students took a weekend trip to Iguazú, and since there was only one plane that they could take they didn’t have much of a choice but to leave on Friday morning. Therefore, after the craziness of my quiz and test on Thursday, classes were rather calm due to the lack of attendance. My 318 class was actually quite interesting; there were only three of us there so we just kind of talked the entire period. Although I just refer to it as “318,” the name of the class is actually Spanish Conversation and Composition with a focus on Latin American culture. Therefore, all of the topics that we talk and write about have to do with the lifestyle surrounding us. Friday we were learning some new vocabulary and Profe Ingrid was trying to explain to us the meaning of the word piropeador, which we finally came to the conclusion translates to “flirty.” The explanation led to a discussion about how Latin men (including those in South and Central America, Spain, and Italy) respond to seeing women in the street; for example, they whistle, make kissing noises, call out compliments, etc. Our professor informed us that the women in these countries consider this a major compliment. She continued this lesson on cultural differences by even saying, “Especially the men who work on construction sites…they’re so polite! Every woman who walks by, even if she’s ugly, they tell her how beautiful she is. Every time I walk by them I hold my head high and smile big.” We then told her that the construction workers in the U.S., seeing as many of them are immigrants from these countries, do the same thing and American women consider it offensive. She was really surprised and said, “No, no, no! They’re so polite!” I found this extremely interesting since this is exactly the kind of thing I’m studying: how a lack of understanding between cultures can cause unnecessary conflicts. So girls, I’m not saying don’t be careful when you are walking on the street, I just thought it was some interesting food for thought that I’d share. Anyways, since my bus for Buenos Aires didn’t leave until late at night I had brought money with me Friday morning and after class I went on a hunt for the wonderful street artist that I had stumbled across the Thursday before. I had been all over downtown the week before, so I couldn’t remember which street he had been set up on; therefore, I had to walk around for a while but I was determined to find him! Finally, from a distance I saw the crowd his work had drawn, and as I walked up I saw that I had for sure found my guy. With his crazy hair and beard and once again dressed in paint-stained clothing, he was working diligently while the crowd looked on. He finished, and as everyone clapped and he set it to the side to dry I asked him if I could look at the other paintings. He said of course, and I sifted through the awesome (what I would consider) spray-paint masterpieces until I found one that I fell in love with. Even though he had already started another painting, when I pulled out my money to pay he dropped everything he was doing and focused all of his attention on me. I got the feeling that although the man provided entertainment for many people every day, not many people were willing to buy any of his work; therefore, what I thought was going to be a two second interaction turned into a fifteen-minute conversation. He asked me where I was from and I gave my usual reply of los Estados Unidos, and then he asked me which state and I replied, “Texas,” (also, for those of you back home, it’s not Tejas…Texas is correct – this was something I kept getting wrong) and he started telling me all about how George Bush’s dad owned oil in Texas. It was kind of an awkward thing to respond to, so I agreed with him but then assured him that most people in Texas do not own oil. It is always interesting that that’s one of the first things people in other countries relate with our state. Then he told me that he used to live in Brazil and he was able to sell his paintings for more, but then he moved to Córdoba, which he called la capital de pobreza (the capital of poverty), and he had to lower his prices. Even though I didn’t really know what to say it was interesting listening to his take on things. Anyways, during the rest of our conversation the man told me about places that I needed to visit near Córdoba and he was very nice. It was a pretty cool experience; although I had to ask him to repeat what he said many times, it was a cool feeling to be able to have a complete conversation with a random vendor on the streets of a foreign city. I headed home with my new treasure and napped and packed for the weekend before dinner, and afterwards I took a taxi to the bus station. There, I met up with Rachel and Lara and we successfully found our bus and headed off for our weekend in Buenos Aires.
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