I’ve been listening—willingly—to banjo music.

I’ll start at the beginning. My childhood was filled with different kinds of music, but folk music played a big part. Every January my family spent entire weekends at the Anchorage Folk Festival, listening to all that the Anchorage folk scene offered. I have countless memories from Dance Camp, the Memorial Day weekend getaway of folk dancing and music galore. The first instrument I picked up was the violin, which I took with me for three summers to City Folk Arts Camp. My dreams of being a champion fiddle player, or one who could at least sit in on sessions never panned out, but I took with me a love of all folk music.

From Lorie Lewis to Barefoot to Entourlope to The Sevens, I loved them all. I loved the blend of acoustic instruments that seemed to grab my soul. I loved every instrument but one….the banjo.

I wasn’t alone. At the Folk Fest, our mutual dislike became a bonding experience for my mother and I. When a banjo appeared onstage, we rolled our eyes and grimaced. At home, we’d be quick to distract my father if his fingers even so much as twitched–involuntarily–towards the banjo hanging on our wall. We would point out the shortcomings of the instrument: the extreme twang, how easily it was to be out of tune, and so on.

If that wasn’t enough, we cited the players! Banjo players were another type of person all together. To this day, the person who takes the award of earning my dislike the fastest upon introduction was a banjo player (to be fair, he wasn’t much of one, but still).

Within the past four years however, my attitudes towards the banjo have begun to mellow. It started with Crooked Still, a folk group I love so much that I am content to listen on repeat to the album I’ve heard at least twelve times. Their banjo player, I discovered, somehow managed to make the instrument less revolting. How could I love the song “Darling Corey” without the banjo introduction?

Still, old grievances remained, or so I thought. Tonight, on a break from work, I was browsing amazon.com when I came upon the recent Grammy performing indie-rock group Mumford and Sons. Oh, my sister had told me to listen to them. I’d heard them on the radio and thought, “They’re not bad.”

But it was when I pressed “play,” that I heard the banjo for the first time…and I couldn’t get enough. I’m listening to them now, and will be for the rest of the evening. And tomorrow. And the day after that, until maybe, just maybe, I’ll seek out some other banjo music.

But as for relinquishing some of my dislike for that one banjo player…well, that might take a lot more listening.

I am beyond words. I am beyond expression. All I know is that I am deliriously happy, and that you, dear readers, should be as well.

Why, you ask? Although I’ve been posting more regularly, the posts lacked the spark of travel: of seeing new places and experiencing new things. I recently wrote an email to a friend in Argentina. She’d sent me a copy of a radio show she’d done with a classmate. I took some mate, and as I listened to the radio show, I was instantly transported back. It was wonderful hearing the accents again, and I began to remember little things about Argentina. I remember waiting for the bus on late nights and eating freshly baked criollos. I remember exploring small towns and the thrill that came with a conversations in which I was never asked, “De donde sos?” Where are you from? It seems somewhat unreal think that this time a year ago I was nearing the end of my first month there.

So maybe the posts aren’t quite as interesting as they used to be.

But all that is going to change soon, and it began with tonight.

As my friends and I moved past the halfway point of our post-high school education, we began to talk about doing a graduation trip. Initially all we came up with was Greece, and several friends were on board. Entering this year, however, only three of us could make arrangements for such a trip, and one of the three would already be traveling with a different friend.

The planning all happened fairly quickly. One moment we were discussing Eastern Europe, and the next we were locking down dates. Two of us would be traveling together, and we’d meet up with the third and her friend in Greece for about a week. Still, it seemed like it was just talk.

But tonight, I picked up the phone and called my soon-to-be traveling companion Rosalie. We’d done flight research for about three weeks individually. About a week ago we looked up flights together—conference call style, of course—and five days ago we agreed that it was now or never. It had to be done tonight.

Dear readers, beginning May 20^th, these posts will be coming to you from the countries of Romania, Bulgaria, Croatia, Slovenia, and Greece.

As for the melodrama that is this post? Blame it on Felix Mendelssohn. In my music history class we’ve been studying the music inspired by his travels to exotic places. Will music be the result of my travels? Will writing? New friends? Will it be a fuller soul?

Who knows, really…

I decided it was time for a change.

Hopefully this change will:

a. remind me to write more.

b. be to your liking.

Okay, so that statement is a little vain, and very much false. And my excitement over this is directed more towards the lives of others as opposed to mine.

Before I left for Argentina–actually, ever since I entered college—I’d been told that as a music major there was no way I could possibly study abroad for a semester if I wanted to graduate in four years. I could do six weeks in the summer. I could try a ten-day trip over Christmas break. But there was little to absolutely no chance I could pull off a full semester, and graduate in four years. No other music major had done it before.

The head of the music department signed my credit substitution papers yesterday.

Now, providing I manage everything this semester (ie. my senior project), on May 14^th I’m taking those long-awaited steps to receive my diploma. But I get more than satisfaction knowing I pulled this stunt off: Today I had a second study-abroad advising meeting for a music industry student.

Last semester, Krista, a first-year vocal music industry expressed an interest in study abroad. Right before registration week, we sat down in the lounge for an hour and a half and mapped out her entire class schedule for the next four years. It was a little scary, knowing that if something goes wrong with her schedule, it was because of my advising. Still, she’s hoping to study abroad in Australia, so that should make transferring classes back easier.

So that was fun, and exciting for both us. Then, last week I got an email from Livia, a sophomore music industry student, hoping to study abroad this time next year.

“Okay,” I thought to myself. “I don’t know how well this will work for her, but we’ll meet and see what can be done.”

We did it. Her schedule is plotted out.

All Livia has to do is a: not fail any classes (unlikely). b. apply to study abroad. c. make sure everything transfers through afterwards. She’s going to England, though, so like Krista, her credits should transfer back easily.

That said: Planning for music industry, or even just music in general (because I’m sure it’s a possibility for education or Bachelor of Arts too) is not without difficulties. Unlike language, or even English or Communications majors, sacrifices have to be made. I had to take several classes early. I didn’t understand a lot, but I learned. Krista has to do the same, but we structured her schedule better than mine. Mine was assembled in a fairly hodge-podge way. Because I knew which classes needed to have pre-requisite information (even if they didn’t state that in the course catalog), we placed all her intro industry credits like songwriting or improvisation first. We tried to keep classes that follow in sequential semesters, such as orchestration and then jazz arranging, in the same order.

It was a little different for Livia. She’d already completed several necessary classes. Also, the university in London to which she’ll apply does offer an internship program as well as music classes. Hopefully some will transfer over, but if they don’t, she’ll still take an arranging class in order to prepare for her senior project. She’ll be doing that fall of her senior year. Unlike my Argentina program, which lasted until August, Livia will return home in May. She’ll have all summer to prepare, and although she’ll probably take jazz arranging at the same time as her senior project, she’ll have taken the arranging class abroad.

It’s a little confusing, and perhaps not that interesting to people who aren’t actively involved. But I’m thrilled for both of them. I’m also relieved that it worked out for me—and that now I can advise others on study abroad.

Music is a discipline that does require a lot of study. But the best musicians and composers were influenced by sounds outside their immediate area. Mozart moved around several times. Although born in Germany, Handel studied in Italy and was revered in England. Paul Simon incorporated African sounds into one of his best-selling albums. British rock bands copied the sounds of American ones and came up with something completely different and so on.

We need exposure to other sounds and sights as musicians. It’s one thing to try convincing a music student who doesn’t want to travel to study abroad. But discouraging musicians who are interested and willing to work from studying abroad is detrimental to their growth, as well as the growth of the program.

I’m planning a month-long trip to Europe after that happy day of graduation. But to Krista, Livia and whoever else decides that study abroad is worth it: I’m so jealous! Can I please come along with you?!

I realized about a year or two ago that I’ve finally reached the age where others’ ages are frozen. For example, I don’t care what anyone tells me, but my mother and my two aunts will be forever stuck at ages forty-seven, forty-six and forty-two. My grandmother isn’t a day over seventy-eight.

Sometimes it works the opposite way. My baby sister is eighteen. After seeing her over Christmas break, my mind decided that she was too mature to be eighteen and placed her age around nineteen-turning-twenty. As for myself, I can never keep track of what age I am. The conversation is usually as follows:

“How old are you?”

“Twenty…one. I just had a birthday in June. Actually, that would now make me closer to twenty-two I guess. Right?”

“Uh…sure…it’s your age.”

“Yeah. Right. Jeez, I’m old!”

It’s been funny to walk into around my old high school and realize that I’m actually closer in age to several teachers now. It makes sense, since several of my friends here at school are studying education. Most of them are currently student teaching.

The really strange aspect of this, however, is that while I know I had teachers that young in my junior high/high school years, they all seemed so old to me! I mean, they were at least in their mid-thirties…had to be, right? But today, as I was participating in the daily struggle of what do I wear, it occurred to me that those teachers might have been actually been closer to twenty-five, or even twenty-three.

For most people, getting dressed is not a big deal. Pick out jeans, pick out a top, and done. Not me. So, as I was peering at my skirt and top in the mirror this morning instead of throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt (sweatshirts are reserved for bedtime, early mornings, and complete bum days), I seized upon the brilliant idea of a loose belt. Sudden flashback to eighth grade: I wore a similarly styled belt (but woven with beads). My language arts teacher, a one Ms. Richards, complimented me on it.

Ms. Richards…the terror of the Honors Program teachers. For some reason, my year took an instant disliking to her. I want to say that she did something a bit strange the first day, something that turned her classes against her, but at this point it’s difficult to say. All I know is that we despised her. We uttered her name in curses, swapped horror stories at track meets with students from other schools—“You think your teacher is bad? Well, you haven’t had Ms. Richards.”

Granted, she did handle some issues badly. Several of my friends and I had been placed into a reading group that was below our abilities, and there were supervision issues when we did get a book suitable for us. There was also the whisper that she smoked pot between classes. I heard it from Lauren, a friend from elementary school.

“Jacob went into her classroom right after lunch, and he could smell it,” she told me.

“Are you sure? It might have been something else?” I was full of doubt, but really, who was I kidding? I was an innocent thirteen-year old. It wouldn’t be until my second year of university before I could accurately identify the sickly sweet smell of pot.

“And her window was open.”

Even if I didn’t fully believe it, (terror of the Honor Program she might be, but certainly not a pot smoker—she was a teacher!) that was yet another strike against her.

By the time second semester came around, our judgment was complete. Everything she did was yet something else to be used against her. When she used the phrase “herding cats” to describe our unwillingness to move, we wrote her off as a crazy cat lady. Although most of the class was advanced readers, we were thirteen and fourteen. I didn’t hear that phrase again until my late teens.

She showed us how the poem “Tyger” by William Blake was the nineteenth century version of rap by playing a Moby song and rapping the poem to the beats. Instead of being enthralled, we saw her as weirdo.

We were cynical, disillusioned, rude, and convinced of our righteousness. For crying out loud, we were Honors students! We were perfect. We had the right to behave as we chose.

I feel somewhat guilty now about our treatment of her. She was a second or third year teacher, still trying to figure out everything school-related—from how to manage a classroom to making learning interesting—as well as life itself. That’s what I imagine at least, being closer to her age now. She probably pictured teaching as something out of a movie. Perhaps “Dead Poets Society,” but set in a middle school. Her projects were interesting, though as usual I followed everyone else and pretended to hate them.

Nowadays, I think I would’ve liked to be friends with the Ms. Richards who taught eighth grade. We shared a similar fashion sense, and interests. Although I still haven’t read Ahab’s Wife, her brief description of it influenced other book choices. My friends and I heard little flashes of Ms. Richards’ life after we left junior high. She was no longer teaching there, but she was living with her engineer (or was it doctor) boyfriend downtown in a log cabin. She was raising a litter of abandoned kittens! She met friends for coffee dates at Kaladi Brothers. Nowadays, I could be friends with someone like that.

Over one school break, I was at a gallery showing with a friend who’d also been in Ms. Richards class. We were crossing the gallery when we saw her:  She was surrounded by friends, and—was that a baby? Silently, we slipped past her, holding our breaths that she wouldn’t recognize us.

At this point, I don’t know if Ms. Richards would remember me, or choose to forget me. But, if you are out there Ms. Richards, and you do stumble upon this blog, I want you to know I’m sorry. Truly. Even if you do smoke pot, you didn’t deserve to have our snide, puffed up selves as students. Perhaps you just chose the wrong age group, because now, as a college senior, I’d love to have you as an English teacher.

One more thing: Your baby, with his blond curls and bright blue eyes, is adorable…but watch out for when he grows up to be in junior high school. He’s going to be smart, adored by his parents, and chased by all the girls. That makes for a dangerous combination. Perhaps if you rap “Tyger” to him early he won’t turn out like to be like the students you had….

It was nearing two in the morning by the time all three pies were out of the oven, and I was finally able to check my email. My father had sent his weekly news/checkup, telling of the recent snowfall, and recounting that they’d already had one in September. I wrote him of the night’s activities: making pumpkin pie from scratch. “It’s hard to believe,” I wrote, “but here it’s possible! The pumpkins—even the ones carved and sitting in front of houses–aren’t already frozen.”

My childhood Halloween’s were interesting. While we desperately tried to mimic the Halloween festivities in magazines, movies and television shows, October weather in Alaska forced us to alter our celebrations.

Anchorage is a modern city. The house (with electricity and running water, thank you very much) where I grew up, and where my family still lives, is in a neighborhood with cul-de-sacs and subdivisions. Still, trick-or-treating between the houses was a chilly affair.

Good costumes required thinking. My sister and I often used the same ideas year after year, because we’d perfected the art of knowing how many layers would fit underneath the vampire shirt. The year I mixed it up, and dressed as Harry Potter, most houses confused me for some sort of puffy witch with weird glasses and bad facial scarring. This was, of course, in the beginning of the Harry Potter craze, but I’d still thought people would know of my favorite hero.

Despite extensive decorations, our neighborhood was deserted come Halloween night, and my family would usually meet up with friends in other neighborhoods. The costumes differed, but the idea was the same: stay warm. Hand warmers were in every parent’s pocket, and friends with costumes made from the sewing machine (and not pulled out of the dress-up box!) often had built-in heating.

Outside trick or treating had other issues besides the weather. One year, the snow had softened during the day. Traffic created ruts, and by night, the ruts had hardened into ice. Unfortunately, the ruts were the only place to walk safely. When my father tried to walk on the snow outside of the ruts, he punched through, and nearly twisted his ankle. Another year, our trick-or-treating activities were delayed for about forty-five minutes. Two moose had decided that our yard and driveway were the perfect place to camp out for the night. With two children dressed in bulky clothing and a husky intent on breaking free from the leash, my parents chose to wait until the moose left.

For the faint of heart, or children wanting to wear costumes without layers, there were other options. A heated warehouse became “Trick-or-Treat Town” for several weekends in October, and tickets sold out rapidly. Children went around to the decorated booths to collect candy, while parents stood around and chatted with each other. A similar event occurred in our performing arts center. In tenth grade, when friends and I had run out of both ideas for group costumes and enthusiasm for trick-or-treating, we volunteered to pass out candy at the event. For the first time in my life, my lion costume required only one layer—at least, until it was time to leave.

This year, I’ve really taken advantage of the magazine-looking October fall. I’ve spread out apple picking and pie making over at least a month. Cider consumption in my apartment knows no boundaries, and the minute tickets open up for a haunted house, I’ll be there faster than you can say, well, “boo.”

Still, old habits die-hard. My Halloween costume won’t include hand warmers, but I might dart to a tree suddenly.  Don’t be alarmed; out of the corner of my eye, I’ve probably just seen a large van—and mistaken it for a moose.

It’s been fun seeing my name in print, I must say! It’s also exciting to walk into newspaper meetings and hear that one of my fellow writer’s professors used my article as an example in class-a communications class, no less!

Anyway, I thought my devoted followers–all three of you (Dad, Karlie, Aunt Audrey…can’t thank you enough)– might enjoy a link to the online version. The best article so far was the Eva Kor one; I’d recommend looking that up.

http://www.strosechronicle.com/home/

But don’t worry, other relatives who might check out this blog randomly. I’ll still send you hard copies. It gives me an excuse to write letters.

Up till then, I’d had her figured out. I’d tried not to give away any clues from which she could draw her “predictions,” but I realized everything was a clue. Everything, that is, with the exception of the medicine statement.

“How could she know that? That’s something I haven’t told anyone; it’s just been turning over in my head!” I exclaimed to my friends. We sat on the boardwalk on York Beach’s “Short Sands,” where crowds of people strolled, most stopping to gape at Katherine’s enormous crab hat. She had bought it earlier in the day; an impulse buy during a shopping trip for aloe. Lizzie had carelessly neglected to put on sunscreen, and her fair skin reacted predictably.

“What have you been turning over in your head?” Lizzie asked, her focus on the Fun-O-Rama across from us. We’d spent a good hour and a half in the arcade the night before, converting our dollars into quarters and trying to gain as many paper tickets as possible. It was cheap fun, but on the beach at dusk we felt as thought we’d been transported to a fifties movie.

“Nothing much,” I muttered. “A thousand possible career paths for after graduation.”

Like most of our plans, we’d made the decision to go to York Beach, ME, about a week beforehand. Three weeks into my return from Argentina, I’d been itching to see some of my own country, and the three of us—Katherine, Lizzie and I—had thought it a good idea to take a Labor Day weekend road trip before our year got too crazy. Despite unnecessarily driving more than an hour south, we’d made it to York Beach with enough time to play in the waves, before immersing ourselves in the beach life. We walked along the shore, popped in and out of gift shops full of seashells, and, of course, spent all our loose change at the Fun-O-Rama.

We’d also all done something individually that “made the trip.” Lizzie found several items in one of the gift shops, and Katherine had ridden the elephant at the small zoo. She’d done it directly before the elephant show, and had been thrilled with the attention the hordes of small children and their families gave her.

For my “special event,” I gave into a desire I’d had since childhood: I got my palm read. It was fun figuring out later how much she could deduce from just our presence in the shop. Did she say I was a world travel because I had my camera out? Did the South she said I’d travel to many times in my lifetime refer to Argentina, and if so, could she see my Argentina pin on my bag? How legitimate was reading palms, any way?

I wasn’t sure. But at the end of our trip, sitting on the boardwalk eating ice cream and basking in the last rays of the summer sun, I could feel a rising hope that maybe her psychic powers were real. Maybe I would surprise myself and turn into the leader she’d (mistakenly) assumed I was. Skimming over the traditional palm reading–I’m old-fashioned in my choice of men, won’t marry until my thirties, will have two or three (slightly worried about that confusion) children—she said, most importantly, “You will have a long life.”

Hello world! The blog is back!

The idea that life imitates art was not one I was musing over at the Alpine Chocolate Festival. It was the end of my parents first week during their visit to Argentina, and we’d opted to rent a car in order to see more of the province. After following me around Córdoba for a few days they were anxious to get out in the countryside before we confronted Buenos Aires the following week.

Two friends of mine had joined us that morning, and we’d successfully navigated our way out of the city to the small German style town of Villa General Belgrano. There, we met up with other friends and enjoyed a day of eating chocolate, drinking beer, and walking around in the mountain air.

A theatre production of “Singing in the Rain” (Cantando Bajo la Lluvia) was among the presentations offered during the festival, and while the other girls caught a bus back to Córdoba, my parents and I checked into our hotel room before going to see it. Earlier that day, we’d stopped at the B&B I’d stayed at with some friends in March. My stay at the Claire d’Lune was wonderful, and our host, Nanette, even more so. She still remembered me for this visit, and it was thanks to her connections we’d managed to land the room at the Edelweiss hotel.

“You better get this room now,” she told us seriously, after spending fifty minutes on the phone. “Everywhere else is booked up, and you don’t want to be laughed out-of-town.”

We checked in, and then made our way back down to the festival to watch the show. While I badgered my parents for a piece of chocolate cake, the junior high school clarinet players flirted with the boys sitting in front of us. My father raised his eyebrows.

“Is that the band?”

It was part of it. But then again, this was a community production. The live band consisted of musicians of all ages and experience, as did the theatre troupe. We still had hope for an entertaining show.

It was entertaining all right. But I didn’t consider that life did in fact imitate art during the show. I was too focused on not laughing.

The movie “Singing in the Rain,” is a classic of American cinema. It combines great songs and dancing with hilarious dialogue that still holds up today.

The problem with the Villa General Belgrano version was that everything that made it great was taken out: There was very little singing or dancing, and what dialogue there was didn’t help to string together the scenes the scriptwriter chose. Without having seen the movie beforehand, the play would’ve been completely incomprehensible.

At first, my parents and I came up with a logical explanation: In Argentina, the movie must be well-known. That theory held up until we took a good look around us. More than half the audience left during the first scene, and those that were left looked more than a little confused. Then, several irrational decisions besides the butchering of the script came to light. These included the casting a seventy-five year old woman for the role of a twenty year old, or having the love interest drop out until the final scene (never happened in the movie). There was also the poor decision to make a male character female, which brought the play down even more.

The straw that finally broke the camel’s back (or, in terms of other “cultural experiences,” the tenth kid on the elephant at the Mexican circus) was the addition of unnecessary musical numbers that never happened. Instead of completely exposing the cheating lip synching antagonist (played by the seventy-five year old) as a fake, the characters all mused about life. It wasn’t fame they wanted; really, they just wanted to sing and act.

At that moment, life imitated art, because directly after that charming addition the older woman broke into her own version of the song “Singing in the Rain.” Everything became clear. Between gasping for air and crying with laughter on our way back to the hotel, my parents and I pieced the story together.

The theatre troupe, directed by the older woman, was subject to her whims. She’d probably wanted to play the role of Lina Lamont, the antagonist, ever since she’d seen the movie, but never had the chance.

“Someone saw that movie while sick, and then had a fever dream,” my father said, shaking his head, while my mother and I doubled over with laughter. “That is the only way to explain that script.”

Owing to the theatre pecking order, the casting was a lot skewed. That’s why, with the exception of the male lead, no one was properly cast.

Please don’t get me wrong. I don’t think that all art has to be serious. I am, after all, the one who chose to see a vampire musical in Buenos Aires the next week (which my ever patient father accompanied me to as well.) But if it’s meant to be entertaining, please make sure the audience is laughing with the actors, and not at theinam.

Otherwise, life will be imitating art. Literally—my parents and I have been singing “Cantando Bajo la Lluvia” ever since.

I thought wrong.

I could feel myself shrinking into the corner with each swell of people. The boys in front of me backed up, and my panic increased as the waitress on the other side of the window frantically motioned for me to move.

“It’s going to break!” she mouthed.

As if I hadn’t suspected that already. The window wasn’t made of true glass, but more of a flexible, plexiglass material that each time bent further as more people passed and jostled for positions. The waitress tried to signal the boys, but they were too intent on blowing their blue and white Argentina trumpets to pay her any notice. Meanwhile, the streets filled up even more with people, and two hundred feet in front of me adolescent boys created a frenzied mosh pit of celebration.

Welcome to Argentina’s triumph in the “round of 16,” or octavos, in the 2010 World Cup.

A group of friends and I had originally planned on meeting at a restaurant to watch the game against Mexico. Upon arriving to the closed restaurant, someone suggested we instead watch the game in front of the shopping center Patio Olmos, where the city had put up a huge screen. I was a little uneasy about watching with a million screaming fans, but after quick trip to buy an Argentina shirt I was ready to cheer on my adopted country.

“I can’t believe you abandoned me,” Doreidy said, glaring. She was dressed neither in Argentina’s colors nor Mexico’s, fearing that if she openly supported Mexico she’d find trouble.

I shrugged. “Sorry! Vamos Argentina!” I went to throw away the wrappings of my lunch; a choripan bought off the street. When I returned, our small group had gathered the attention of a local newscaster.

“Where are you all from?” he asked, holding the microphone to Doreidy.

“Estados Unidos,” she told him, and then turned away. “Oh, no, I can’t talk, I’m supporting, well…”

“We’re studying abroad here and we’re really excited to watch the game!” I told him.

“And who are you rooting for?” he asked me, “…now that the USA is out of the Mundial.”

I made a sad face. “Well, we had hope for a while, but now we, well most of are, 100% for Argentina!”

“Who do you think will score the winning goals today?”

It was a loaded question—how well did I actually know my adopted country’s team? All the names flew out of my head as I tried to remember just one. Let’s see, there’s Messi….Messi….he’s the obvious choice; I shouldn’t say him…

“I think Higuaín will!” Jennifer piped up. She took off her leather coat and turned around to reveal Gonzalo Higuaín’s number 9 on the back of her Argentina jersey.

The newscaster beamed. “Interesting prediction! He’s a great player; we’ll see how the game goes!”

As it turned out, Higuaín did score at least one of the three goals Argentina made. With each goal the crowd reacted wildly: jumping, hugging, screaming, and occasionally setting off mini firecrackers. The group of adolescent boys behind us tried to push and stir up the crowd, but they quieted down after dealt a death glare from Vicki, the petite 20 something-year-old PECLA program assistant.

Whatever the team felt, the crowd felt. Cries went up after the Mexican player obviously shoved an Argentine, and noises of approval when the referee pulled out the yellow card. Indignation spread though the crowd over unfair plays or calls.

“Now you see the Argentine come out,” Vicki said, laughing at the hand signals appearing all over the crowd; fingers curved to touch the thumb combined with the shaking hand directed at the television.

Mexico eventually scored a goal in the later part of the second half, but for the most part, Argentina won easily. After the game ended, our group split up and I headed uptown with Doreidy, two Spanish friends, and her housemates. Adam and Dani had joined us midway, creating some laughs. While Adam was decked out in Argentina colors, Dani popped up fully supporting Mexico. She quickly smeared off the flags painted on her cheeks, and calmly ignored the teenage boys making comments.

“You know what…I think I’m just going to go home,” I told the group, and turned around, headed back towards the center. My bus stop was on the other side of Patio Olmos, on the other side of the craziness.

Truth be told, I wanted to see some of the after game celebrations, which was how I ended up being shoved into the bending window of the Bonafide café.

Lines of people went past me, playing drums, blowing trumpets, and trying unsuccessfully to make phone calls. A good number looked the way I felt: overwhelmed.

Initially, my spot in the cutout of the window was perfect. I was safe from the mini firecrackers and bombs going off, and from the mosh pits in the center. But then the group of boys came, and with them, more and more people piled into the space.

The waitress tapped again. “Get out!”

I didn’t need further encouragement. I squeezed past the boys and into the sea of people.  As I left the center, more and more people headed towards it. I dashed and hopped on the lone bus leaving my stop. I arrived at home to find my host parents preparing a room for the students arriving in a week.

Fiorella looked at me. “Oh, what a nice shirt!”

¡Vamos, vamos Argentina!

I would’ve liked to include pictures with this post, but my camera ran out of batteries the minute we arrived. It probably worked out for the best; one of the girls was tackled and had to fight for her camera. In the end, she lost it.

Links to the Official Songs of the FIFA World Cup 2010