Buenos Aires doesn't do English. Ouch.

Operating on a vocabulary of twenty words (four of them being hasta, la, vista and baby -- oh, damn, make that nineteen) is something I am rather out of practice with. The last time I found myself in a similar predicament, I was wearing a cloth diaper and stood about four feet shorter. You'd think I'd find the experience easier the second time around -- especially with the newfound advantages of having reached full adult height and mastered the fine art of bladder control -- but, a as recent acquaintance lamented over a cup of coffee: "Once you're a grown-up, you want to continue acting as a grown-up, and not just stand there with your mouth open like, I dunno..." A moron, I suggested helpfully. I don't have a lot of friends.

Oh, well, too bad, kiddo! Welcome to toddlerhood, take two. This might be good practice for sixty years down the road (except the diapers might be making a reappearance then).

This is not shaping up to be a very original blog post, is it? Much has been said and written in every language about not being able to say and write things in every other language, and how incapacitating this state of affairs is in localities where said other language predominates. I could add my own drop to that ocean by regaling you with outlandish but believable tales about how we ended up buying three pounds of nutmeg having mistaken it for hot chocolate powder, or the time we managed to insinuate to a local she was growing purple aliens between her toes while trying to ask for directions, but -- contrary to what I may have lead you to believe originally -- that's not the point of this blog post.

Its point, ironically enough, is rather a complete opposite: namely, to assert that there are few things as conducive to effective and pleasant communication as a solid, impenetrable language barrier. The taller the better.

Before you write me off as batboogers-crazy, let me cleverly illustrate this to you:

(In case you can read Chinese, here is an alternate version speshul for you: Λοιπόν, δεν μπορείτε να διαβάσετε αυτό, σήμερα, μπορεί να σας; Μπορείτε; Ποιος στο διάολο είσαι εσύ;)

See, wasn't that so much clearer?

No?

Shit.

Ok, let's try another approach. One involving detailed explanations in a language both the writer and the reader  are reasonably conversant with (oh, the irony!)

One brilliant thing about a language barrier is the instant mood of cooperation and concentration it invokes in both parties. When a thick wall of linguistic incomprehension separates two sentient beings, they do not attempt to communicate as they might otherwise: while staring absentmindedly out the window and mumbling sloppily formulated half-sentences through their teeth. Oh no, they are more tuned into each other than two lovers frolicking in between the sheets! Gazing into each other's eyes with utmost attention, they desperately scan each other's facial expressions and body language to detect any clues that might aid in communication. Mirror neurons are firing as each person attempts to put herself in the other's shoes, and drama skills are being sharpened as spontaneous pantomimes break out, to mutual contentment and amusement.

This cooperative atmosphere is further amplified by the fact that a language barrier simplifies the representation of reality to a degree in which conflict is barely possible, certainly not a conflict of any depth. Try having a fight about a hot topic such as, say, politics, armed only with an array of pocket phrasebook sentences like: "I'd like a glass of red wine, please!" and "My tooth hurts. I need a dentist now." Your closest approximation would be to ask a rhetorical question mocking the municipal policy on public hygiene ("Where are the washrooms?") -- but that hopelessly lacks the venom you'd expect from a juicy political debate.

The parties are further placated and put at ease by the virtual impossibility of committing a social faux-pas or unintentionally offending one's interlocutor. For that can only happen when both people are firmly rooted in the same cultural field, and have a knowledge of common understanding of that field's social subtleties. But in case of linguistic incompatibility, all such nuances and quirks (all the verbal ones at least) are wiped out and we are left with two shining beacons of clarity:

, and the two humans, beaming wide smiles and flapping their arms at each other, can usually waltz their way towards one of them without blowing up on some sociolinguistic landmine that our regular, unilingual conversations are so fraught with.

And all is well and fine and good, until you realize your tooth does not really hurt, but it is a bit wiggly, so you need to see a dentist, but you can only squeeze in an appointment on a Wednesday afternoon or a Friday morning, and only if at least 80% of the expenses will be covered by your insurance.

That's why I'm going to Spanish classes four times a week.

It would be a lie to say that this trip to Buenos Aires is the greatest adventure of my life. The grandest adventure (and the biggest mistake) of my life was probably getting born in the first place. Learning to fly airplanes is also up there somewhere (pardon the pun). Immigrating to Canada. Things like that.

Still, this trip is a pretty major deal.

For some odd reason, the experience of leaving my home country for good to move halfway across the world at the age of 16 did not shape me into the global citizen it ought to have. Though I have always wanted to travel, the layers of bureaucracy surrounding international travel were, in my mind, impenetrable. The mere thought of applying for a passport -- an unavoidable step for those seeking to cross the border in a legal fashion -- had me breaking out in cold sweat. And then there were all the entry requirements, visas, vaccinations, fees, applications, tickets, reservations, paperwork, terror, horror and pure hell. The worst part, however, was the fact that at any given time,  I could only be in one travel destination out of millions possible ones. What are the chances that that one happens to be the best one? So slim as to be statistically insignificant. And because I'm a perfectionist who would not be able to live with an imperfect choice, I chose to avoid all choosing and stay close to home.

That was in the pre-Vera days, though. Because, you know, there is a reason I call her Tornado Teschow. You meet her and you think: "Ah, what a breath of fresh air! My, a mighty strong breeze, in fact!" -- and the next thing you know you're upside down, three thousand feet above ground, and definitely not in Kansas anymore. Which is really quite a relief because who wants to spend their whole life in Kansas, anyhow?

Kansas it ain't. It's a city -- and what city! A vibrant, colourful, run-down, noisy one -- clattering, clamouring, running up and down the street, flaunting and strutting its stuff: look, look at me, look at what I've got! Every cobblestone street, every busted up sidewalk, every litter-covered corner, every dogshit-strewn parkette, every graffiti-plastered fence is dancing in the sunshine, buzzing with the invisible but oh so potent energy that makes you just want to forget that anything has ever been wrong with the world. Except pickpockets. Don't forget about pickpockets. Watch your bag.

The size of this urban conglomeration is astounding sometimes. "This is a BIG city," one of us whispered as we descended into Ministro Pistarini International on an early, pre-sunrise morning of September 17th, 2013. There was something worrisome about that sight. What's here? Who lives here? Why do they live here? What's the point of this whole place? If these questions strike you as utterly ridiculous, you are, of course, a perfectly sensible person. They are. Hiding under those questions were the real ones: Why am I  here? What is my reason for being here? What is my purpose?

I don't know. But then, does anyone?

(From Vera)

Tats' perspective on Argentina, along with her photos, should be shared!  I am in the process of persuading her of this.  She is an excellent writer, and her words will illustrate a far more colourful picture of our experiences than mine.  Also, she is currently taking an online writing course, and I think this blog would provide an excellent forum for her to share some of the pieces she produces in the class.

All in favour, please email Tatsy and tell her you support the idea of her blogging during our time here in Argentina!!!  :)))