Robot stomp

We have moved on to Rosario, the "Chicago of Argentina" as someone tritely named it in a travel guide. It is tucked in near the mouth of the Rio Parana as is quite a beautiful place with an impressive plaza and parks fitting of a fallen empire. Except the empire was never built. It is more comfortable and arguably more Northern European than Buenos Aires. There are fewer plastic surgery offices and more friendly yet no less attractive people.

I am quite impressed with Alex in his progression with Spanish and diligence to learn. We go over Spanish Rolling Stone articles and conjugate in the streets. Ordering meals and asking strangers questions are now in his repetoire. I tell him stories in Spanish. He makes flash cards.

My listening skills have improved over last week but this week my speaking feels rudimentary. In a language that flows volumptious but light, in circles and organic shapes, my mouth has a preconditioned dispostition to want to spit blocks and grind oddly against words that I have full capacity of using. I remember this from my previous experiences.

Learned speakers of a language in a foreign land whre that language is spoken are robots of sorts. Programmed to know certain phrases, the notches of gears fit particular speaking and social conventions. Sometimes stress spews in smoke from ears and unsecured joints while all that is discernible on the monitor is: ERROR ERROR, FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE!

We watched a play at a theatre in Buenos Aires before we left in which there was a family who had created a robot to aid them in their outrageous and hilarious plots to brainwash people to participate with them in silly prefabricated adventures. Steve and I both agreed later that the robot was our favorite because his choppy formalized Spanish was easiest to understand.

Yesterday was an interesting day in which this English speaking robot was engaged many flowspeakers for both best and worst.

There was a roundy 8-ish year old girl at a bus stop in the blazing sun who had no qualms in asking us our business and declaring in the same breath that we had better put on some sunscreen because we were "real white" sure to burn. She noticed our large backpacks and asked if we were gypsies selling stuff. I told her no, but we did have magic things inside like stars, witch stuff, and dolphin tails. This did not seem to surprise her.

After some more chatting about where we were going and why we arent tan, she asked us where we were from. I playfully told her we were from Canada.
"Canada, is that some type of farm?" She asked.
I told her that indeed it was a farm very far North where right now it is winter.
"And they speak Spanish there?" she asked incredulously.
"No, I learned Spanish in school," I told her.
"What about him, this stone," she said motioning to Alex.
"Oh he didnt learn it in school. He speaks Russian."
"Is that another farm?" she aked with her eyed crossed while making animated gestures at Alex, speaking very slowly and loudly, "HO-LA, CO-MO ES-TAS!" she didnt wait for his reply. "What is Russian, a farm?" she inquired of me again.
"No, its a ranch. Do they teach you geography?"
"Sometimes," she said, then changed the subject to how she liked my shoes.

I met a lively woman named Luz that works for the electric company on the bus and also had an interesting exhange that ended with me punching someone for the first time in my life. You can ask me about that on your own if you are interested.

I learned that today is Thursday. The museum door said closed for repairs on Thursday and the doors were locked. You know your life distilled to the best things when you have to make bets about what day of the week it is. In a few hours we go to Mendoza, near the border with Chile. I am very sunburned from my time on the riverbeach yesterday. I am reading " Del Amor y Otros Demonios" (Of Love and Other Demons) by Marquez. Its good and quick. You should check it out, if you like that kind of surealistic pulchritude.

More photos.