Jumbo is more than an elephant

Last night I went to the Jumbo. Jumbo is an enormous store that has everything --- clothing, household supplies, food and gardening supplies. I went there only once with Larry and remember mostly trying to find Larry as he would suddenly disappear down an aisle, only to be lost until he reappeared again. I didn't get much that time because I had just arrived, it was my first time, and I didn't realize how limited my choices in the Argentine supermarkets are. I was still very much in my honeymoon phase of culture shock, where everything is wonderful, and was still impressed with the fact that I could buy cheese, salami and olives in the supermarket near my apartment.

Now, the thrill is gone and I'm living in reality (I hope that to be true). I see that my selections in the regular supermarket is kind of limited. When there is an entire shelf section, top to bottom of Tang, you kind of realize that something is missing.

I was reading on one of the ex-pat info pages about Jumbo and it reminded me that I should go there to stock up my kitchen with some basic stuff. I have been unable to find garlic powder, a staple ingredient in my kitchen (I didn't find it last night either).

So after a busy and tiring day of walking to school to register, where I felt like a rat caught in a maze, I went off to Jumbo. But first the rat.

I am feeling better. Everything about me is almost back to normal, or as normal as I can get. I can still feel my skin is a little clammy, but there is no sign of fever, diarreah or any stomach problems. I knew I was hungry when walking home from school yesterday I got an intense craving for a milanesa with mashed potatoes. I stopped in Cafe de las Ciencias, one of my usual eating holes and instead got a fugazza with cheese - a fugazza is a sauceless pizza served with fried onions on top. Some come without cheese.

Registering for classes is always a hassle. I think people who are in charge of registration enjoy sending people in all different directions, kind of a power trip. I imagine that they had ant farms when they were growing up.

I got to school and on the ground floor were signs pointing every which way. There was a big board with the rooms where students would be evaluated for each language. I made a mental note, but figured there would be another of those signs up on the 2nd floor where the testing would take place. I forgot that registrars are sadists who like to confuse people.

First I went to the first floor and there were different signs pointing in different directions. I was already confused, because I didn't not know what I had to do. A security guard stood there and I asked him, "to register?" He asked me if I'd had my test yet, and I said no, so he sent me up to the 2nd floor. On the 2nd floor there were no signs with the room numbers like on the ground floor, so I went back to the ground floor to check again. Italian was in room 204 and Arabic was in 210.

I found the Italian room, but wanted to check out Arabic first, since I thought it would be easier (I was just going to tell them I knew absolutely no Arabic). I found room 210 and it was empty. It was also the room to be evaluated for original languages (Quecha, Mapuche and one other I can't remember), Japanese, and a few other, perhaps less popular languages. I walked down the hall again, and checked back one more time, but still no one to register me for Arabic. Instead I went to the Italian room where I told the young woman I knew some Italian and she gave me a test.

The test of course was grammatical. Why did I expect it at all to be communicative? I had groups of three sentences and had to choose the one that was correct. I knew right away that I was not going to do well because there was absolutely no context for the sentences. I guessed.

I returned the test and told her I didn't do well. She then asked me a few questions in Italian that were immediately over my head. I thought that maybe in a four month course, people get really advanced and if I were to take level 2, it would be over my head, so I just told her I wanted level 1. I then switched to Spanish and told her that my goal for being here was to be in a language class and meet other Argentine people. She also helped me out to register for the Arabic class.

I now had two registration slips and went back down to the first floor to finish. I started to get in what looked like the obvious place to go, but the security guard motioned no. He called me over and asked if I had some code. I thought I did, but turns out I didn't. I had to go to room 107 and get the class codes.

After that, I went back and attemted to get in the line, but again he motioned no. He pointed to another room. In that room I gave the guy my papers, my student ID card and he checked the details on the computer. It was a good thing he checked because I had written down the code for Arabic 2. That would have been interesting.

Finally with all of that I was permitted to go get in the line to pay. Only there was a problem. I had arranged to pay in 5 monthly payments, but for some reason my credit card would not allow it. The clerk in the little payment box was not very happy to explain things to me (why are people who work in schools so cranky?), and I went back to the other little room to arrange for everything in one payment, which ends up being cheaper anyway.

After I paid, I went up to the 2nd floor again to get my books, which cost me about $30 US for two books (a bargain for language texts), and I was on my way.

In the middle of all of this running around Hernan called to see how I was doing. I called him when I was finished. He was having some drama. He had invited me over to his house for dinner either Thursday or Friday (that is what the invitation was). I told him I thought Friday would be better because I didn't think I'd be totally well by Thursday. Our conversation seemed to be him hinting that Thursday would be better, but I was not sure. I wasn't budging because I had already planned to go to Jumbo on Thursday and I knew I wasn't feeling well enough to go to his house and drink wine.

I headed home, stopping for my fugazza on the way and took a nap as soon as I got in. I was exhausted.

After my nap, a little snack and TV, I went out and caught a cab and went to Jumbo.

I told the driver I wanted to go to Jumbo in Palermo. Fortunately it is famous and I didn't have to say more, but I was prepared to tell him it was across from the big mosque (mesquiza) if I had to. Traffic was heavy and it took us a while to get there.

When I arrived at first I was lost because there is another big store called Easy. I went in but didn't recognize anything. Finally I found the entrance for Jumbo, went up the escalator and found myself in another country.

The place was enormous. The line of cash registers looked like starting gates at a horse race. I meant to count to see how many there were, but I'd estimate around 50. Of course, not all of them were staffed, but I can imagine that when the place is really busy, it is a total zoo.

I started off in housewares and was happy to find those ziploc containers (which I will bring with me next time), a vegetable peeler and a spatula. I found some yummy Thai sauces - tamarind, mango and a sweet and spicy chili sauce. I found coconut milk! (in the wine section for some reason). I got some really good teas (black currant and passion fruit/mango/orange). I spent over $100 and my cart was not even 1/16 full (it was a big cart). I walked out with three pretty heavy bags.

On the way to Jumbo in the cab I texted Hernan to see if he needed anything. He texted back "a psychologist". Another drama. We texted back and forth a bit - he was having another crisis. I told him I'd call him when I got home.

As I was unpacking my groceries (and wondering why I bought all of this stuff) I called him. His crisis was that he rented his apartment in San Telmo and was planning to move back to the apartment in Palermo, but the guy who owns that had rented it. I was beginning to get the sense that there was something more than the mysterious hand of fate at play here. The owner of the Palermo apartment is an older American guy. Hernan seemed to be blaming him for the mixup. Maybe it was a language thing? Cultural? In any case, I don't think Hernan is a totally innocent victim. I might have been a little dismissive with him, but my philosophy is that we are all in some way responsible for the things that happen to us, even if it is on a subconcious level. If you keep getting into car accidents that appear not to be your fault, at some point you need to just stop getting into the car.

Hernan also told me he has dinner plans for tonight. This is why every time I said Friday would be better he told me he'd check to see how I felt on Thursday.

I'm starting to think that maybe Hernan is not the best fake boyfriend I can find here. He is funny, and cute and interesting and all that, but he just does not have his life together at all - he is not even close. He spends hours on his computer playing with music and smoking pot and then complains that he has no job. It's like he was frozen in amber as a teenager and never got out of that phase that boys go through where they lock themselves in their rooms.

I am feeling cranky, I think because I was sick, but I also realize it is because I am no longer in my honeymoon phase. I thought I'd come back and go through another honeymoon, but it seems like that did not happen. Maybe there is a honeymoon coming, but right now I am definitely experiencing culture shock - that nasty feeling of wanting things to be different than they are. Recognizing that that is what is going on, here are my gripes:

I hate breathing in other people's second hand smoke. It is everywhere. On top of that is the smoke exhaust from cars and busses. Walking down the street is a virtual obstacle course, avoiding people who seem to enjoy playing pedestrian chicken and never seem to walk in a straight line or in one direction or on one side of the sidewalk, looking down to avoid dog shit and cracked sidewalks or gaping holes, walking around newspaper kiosks which block the sidewalk on major busy streets, and avoiding crazy drivers (bus drivers being the worst) who don't seem to care if they hit you. I am tired of people bumping into me and not saying excuse me, and am tired of having to constantly say excuse me to other people who are always in the way (maybe I need to just start bumping?) I am tired of trying to make myself understood. That is nobody's fault, but it is tiring when people don't understand you. I am tired of going to the supermarket and not knowing when I am supposed to get something weighed and when I don't have to. I get frustrated when I want to buy something like fresh olives but don't know how much to ask for (how much is 100 grams anyway?)...

Phew!!!

Well, I guess that is it. It wasn't that bad. On the good side, I got good medical advice from the doctor at the hospital. When I stopped taking the flu medicine my doctor gave me , I started feeling better (so much for American medical superiority). I am going to the spa today for a three hour treatment for about $80 US, and I have a lovely apartment that is quiet and has a very interesting view. I guess it's all about balance and recognizing that there are good and bad things to living here will help keep me in balance (as long as I recognize the good - or the bad).

For now, I am enjoying a wonderful cup of black currant tea - breathe...