Pencils and Suptes and the First Day of School

Today was my first day of school. It also marked the last day of the week of intensive Spanish classes. I don't really know what that means, because I feel like Spanish won't get much less intensive. I got all my books like a little school girl and had my pencils and papers ready, besides the pencil that Maddie lent to me that Cognac ate. Sorry Maddie. Yes, he comes into my room and picks an object of his choice to selfishly patter away with like a little fuzzy pack rat. My madre has told me to bribe him with food when that happens, so I went in the kitchen to find nothing but a rice puff. That's another interesting thing about Argentines, they seem to only buy the food they need for the next few days instead of stocking up for the week. I put the food on the ground, knowing the drill. Cognac drops the item. Cognac saunters over to eat the food and I have a few swift seconds to reclaim my possession. I always feel like one of those praying mantis bugs, frozen until the time of attack. But Cognac broke protocol. He managed to keep the pencil in his mouth as he picked up the puff and slid triumphantly back to his bunker under the table. I transformed from ninga mantis to a puddle of of defeat. I really hope I'm not unknowingly on some reality show about Americans who study abroad. Sorry America, but you haven't encountered this Schnauzer.

Meet Cognac, the Master of my Casa

Something I really appreciate about the Casa (that's what the students call the school) is it's secret nooks. It's like that creepy man on the street selling watches from his coat, but instead of someone creepy it's Santa, and instead of watches it's candy. It's elderly years show in the creaks of the boards and the worn copper of the doorhandles. It can be inconvenient. Like the kind of inconvenient when you realize you're in the wrong class and try to sneak out and when you reach the front of the class to discreetly slide through the door you accidentally break off the doorknob and stand there frozen with it in your hand and you stare at the class and the class stares at you and you flip through every situation in your head that could possibly reconcile yourself but your mind feels like a five-thousand blank page catalog. But beyond moments like that I feel like this building has places to recover. To recharge. An abandoned corner feels like my own personal hospital. I can almost feel the walls sprout arms to reach out and hug me. Those corners are under staircases, on top of roofs... But one of my favorites is a little wooden desk hidden above the front door entrance with a guitar leaning itself up against a wall nearby. I love those little discoveries.

Every morning I wake up happy that I'm here. I just feel so independent, like the world is mine. I walk everyday without a GPS in a big city. I'm needing to rely on memory and maps rather then just plugging my trust into an electronic. I need to rely on the Supte and busses and taxis. They continue on with or without me, and I have to choose to be a part of them. When I'm riding the Supte (the Argentine subway), I look around at the black jackets and the seams of pants and the reflections of people's fingertips clutched on the metal standing bar and I think about how I have a jacket on too and seams on my own pants and how my fingers leave prints on that same standing bar and I feel like my existing is actually functioning for something. It feels like my life is my own for the first time in my life. I feel free and more alone than I ever have. It's a hard alone. But a beautiful alone. Like the buildings that are built to be more than just a contribution to a consumer's society. Like the buildings that exist to crumble, to add to the life around them and to stand as an example of something that was worth existing. Not that they have a story. They might not have a beginning, a climax or a sudden end. It might not be exciting. But every bit of that life is still a part of them, like the fingerprints that stay on the standing bar in the subway and the little threads that fall forgotten into corners. And I'm a part of it all. Something about that seems to reach into my throat and squeeze the air out of my lungs. We're free to learn whatever we want. A language, the history of the Incas, a new song. We get to choose to be a part of that everyday. Here's to the first day of the rest of our lives and the adventures that we might fall head-over-heels-in-love into if we choose to get up and be a part of life.