The Stages of Psychosis as told by me at 4 AM

Further confirming my desire to relocate to Iceland following my year abroad was the information found in this link, http://www.visindavefur.is/svar.php?id=2166, that mosquitos are not found in Iceland. Reykjavik, here I come. Apparently this is due to instability in the climate (i.e. rapid and unpredicted changes in temperature, not particularly conducive for the breeding of mosquitos). THANK GOD BECAUSE IT IS 4 IN THE MORNING AND THERE IS ONE, JUST ONE (just tried to kill it, it got away, of course), LEFT IN MY ROOM AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS GO TO BED. Thus, in my vastly paranoid, alert, and cold-sweaty state of mind, I will begin to explain my take on "The Stages of Psychosis of Homo sapien vs. Whatever Life Battle Is Thrown His/Her Way" using the extended metaphor of Man versus Mosquito.

Phase 1 - Gross Overconfidence:
This phase is commonly marked as the introductory phase to any sort of unbecoming endeavor a man may face. Humans are armed with the unwavering ability to be more sure of one's self than they should be when beginning to face a challenge seemingly trivial or mundane, in this case, simply killing a mosquito or two. I think to myself, "They're loud, they always land on white walls (thank god for that), and they're pretty fucking stupid, so smacking it with my shoe shouldn't take too long and then I can return to my previous state of dreaming about Agent Cooper from "Twin Peaks". Cool. " I step out of bed, crack my neck, whip out my Birkenstock, and say to myself, "Alright, suckers (pun intended), let's dance". Phase One is going great! They're loud, just as I predicted, and they always land on the white walls. Sitting targets. I have just killed the first mosquito and all is fine and dandy until I look at my shoe and what do I see my but my own...goddamn...blood. My own blood that my body produces. For me. So I can live. No, the amount of blood a single mosquito withdraws in one bite will not deplete me of enough blood to die. But it's the principle of it, damn it. That's my blood, and it's not about to become food or whatever for some larvae bed in a stagnant pool of water somewhere. I look up from my bloodied shoe, and I feel hellfire dance in my eyes. I reach for the warpaint, or in this case, bug spray, and it's game on.

Phase 2 - Pure Anger:
Does this really need further explication? I just saw my own blood in a scenario that wasn't getting a paper cut or donating at a blood drive, but rather, exploding out of the abdomen of blood-eating Culiseta longiareolata onto my new shoes. I'm a madwoman on a mission to kill.

Phase 3 - Vulnerability (Mental and Physical):
By now, I'm realizing I got more than I bargained for with this endeavor. It is now 3:30 in the morning, all I want to do is sleep. Despite my deep-seated fear of bedsheets that aren't mine, the bed looks amazing and it's calling my name. It's been an hour since the Hunt began, and there's still at least one more on the loose. I'm slowing down, my drive is dwindling, and I sense an early defeat. I have no one to turn to because who the hell is up at this hour anyways? In more ways than one, I realize I am alone. I am alone, I am tired, and I realize that the mosquito is still pining for my legs. I spray them down once more and proceed to put on long, loose pants and a shirt of a similar description. I do this in a strange preparation for defeat. I might as well just cut my losses and let this fiend have a few more goes at me from the comfort of my own bed. At least I'll be covered up. I sigh in dismay. I just want this to be over.

Phase 4 - Deterioration (Mental and Physical):
If you think sweating sucks, try living in Corrientes. It's winter and it was 90 degrees today. Therefore, covered head to toe in clothes to protect myself while running around my room trying to kill this mosquito, I begin to just pour sweat. I took my contacts out before I went to bed (two damn hours ago) so I am wearing my glasses. But not really because my face is sweating so much they keep sliding down the bridge of my nose and falling off. Not only is it distracting, but it is preventing me from keeping my eyes on the little deviant. I can't turn the fan on because then I can't hear the incessant buzzing of the mosquito, but I can't take my clothes off because then I will expose myself and subject myself to further bites. It's a vicious cycle happening, and I am beginning to lose it. At this point I'm pretty sure the little twerp is just taunting me. I bet it won't even bite me, but it's still buzzing around to keep me awake. It knows. It knows when I'm distracted, Googling answers on "How to lure bugs out of my bedroom" and "Homemade remedies to keep mosquitos away", and it will whiz past my ear, cackling as it flies by. As I hear it in my ear, half my body breaks out into horrid cold sweats of paranoia and fear. It's so incredibly hot and humid in my room, but I feel chilled nonetheless. I decide to call a truce. I say out loud, "Okay, mosquito, if I stop trying to kill you, you have to stop trying to bite me. Deal?" I don't know why I wait for a response, like a mosquito is going to say, "Yeah, sure, Gaby. Truce!" But in my heart of hearts I pray that somewhere in its antennae or brain-type organelle she can feel a trace of empathy for my plight as I feel for hers. After all, she is just fulfilling her biological role in the food chain and attempting to execute her duties as a mother. Though as an r-species she really doesn't care for her offspring since they can amount to numbers in the thousands. As this thought crosses my mind, I know I desperately, desperately need some sleep. I truly feel miserable.

Phase 5 - Divine Intervention (My host sister helps me):
My host sister had a dinner to go to tonight and returned in the knick of time. She came up the stairs and saw my light was still on, heard the crashes and the clamor coming from the room, and knocked on the door. She looks at me. I try not to think about what she is seeing right now. A deranged, sweaty girl with her glasses sliding down her face, hair in a rat's nest of a bun, wearing totally inappropriate clothes for the current weather, reeking of bug spray, and laughing (accidentally) kind of maniacally because she is so happy to see her come to help. Yes. I am a disheveled mess. Mora says to me, "It's so hot in here, you should turn on your AC. The bugs hate it."Okay, a good first step, I guess. I explain to her the events of my night, and she laughs and says, "Girl, you're gonna have to get used to it living here!" Goddamn it. But in the end, she helps me kill another bug, not the mosquito, but still another bug with the potential to bother me in the night. She tells me to go to bed and not worry about the mosquito. She goes to bed, and I am recharged with the anger that had previously raged within me.

Phase 6 - Control of Mental State and Eventual Triumph:
Reinvigorated with a sense of determination and passion, I rev my engine (though I'm definitely running on empty), I'm for real this time, and I'm gonna nab this sonofabitch. I develop a strategy. If I sit in one place and look at the same spot, eventually the bug will fly that way. We spar for a while, a series of hits and misses on my part, but as I graze the mosquito with my shoe here and there, it begins to lose coordination, making my job easier. At last, it lands on my wall, something it hasn't done in at least two hours, and I lunge, literally lunge for it. I am so desperate I smash into the wall with my entire body weight, and I KILL IT. A wave of relief rushes over me, and I am so elated. I smack it again for insurance, but that bad boy is d-e-a-d. I hate killing things, especially defenseless bugs like spiders and beetles and whatnot, and even mosquitos I feel bad for sometimes, but I couldn't have been more proud that I had persevered and killed that motherfucker. The cold sweats stopped, the paranoid looking-over-my-shoulder-type behavior that had become normal came to an end, and I could sit peaceably in my bed for a change. Then, I thought, "Hey, it's 5 AM, might as well blog about it". So here we are, until tomorrow night when a mosquito comes in my room and the Stages of Psychosis will start all over. But now, I have armed myself with a guide to handle the roller coaster of emotions that is killing a mosquito.

-G

Power of Two

I knew I had to write a blog post immediately so as not to forget this day, because I know I'll remember this year for the rest of my life.

Last night was a disaster, in every sense of the word. For the past five days I have been dealing with a stomach flu and last night was no exception. I felt like every movement took all the effort in my being, and talking brought about bouts of nausea. But the worst of it was knowing it was my last night with my parents, which only doubled the effects of the stomach bug. I could literally go on and on and on about how much I love my parents and how close we are, but it's just easier if I say that I am closer with them than with anyone else in my life, and I would take a bullet and a half for them. Two times over. They're my best pals. I could hardly look my mom in the eye, for each time I looked at her it felt like the last. I tried making small-talk but the words turned into tears. It was the worst night. Jay reassured me that they would miss me, too, which helped, but it did little to alleviate the pain that I felt that night.

Then, this morning, I woke up, and vomited. A super great omen given that this was the day I flew to Corrientes to begin my exchange year. But strangely enough, I cleaned myself up and felt loads better, just really hungry. In the taxi to the airport, my mom and I held hands. It was a somber taxi ride to say the least. Logistics at the airport were relatively seamless. Before going our separate ways (parents flying internationally to Santiago, Chile, and me domestically to Corrientes), we enjoyed The Last Supper (or in this case, The Last Brunch). I feebly ate my cereal and yogurt, and my parents ate their toast and medialunas (sweet croissants made with lard). The entire meal was ever so slightly saddened by the thought that this was our last meal to be shared together for a long, long time. So, we three decided to make a list of the things we would do when we we were feeling sad and wanted to to turn that sad energy into something constructive and positive. My list is pretty embarrassing, seeing as it involves watching many Will Ferrell films (isn't one too many?), but other items on my list were:

Go for a run
Listen to "our" songs
Watch videos of baby animals
Cook
Talk to my host family
Work on college applications (turn sad energy into bored energy, ugh)

My mom shared a similar list, but Jay's held an exception:

"Be sad for a little while"

When he read it it seemed like a fake answer, just to write something down, but it's only now that I can appreciate the validity of this statement. To feel love is a wonderful thing, and I am so lucky I have such wonderful parents to love. But the extent that I love them is the extent to which I will miss them. To acknowledge this for a few minutes and to allow myself to feel sad is alright. It's fine, it's healthy, and it simply balances the positive feelings I have within. I'm not prideful to the point that I can't ever let myself "show weakness" by feeling blue. It is a human emotion that I am comfortable with, and will embody for however long I might need. The key is to not let it overwhelm me. But with the wonderful family and sister that I have here, I doubt that will ever be a problem. I am blessed wherever I look. And for those who know me, I mean that in a very honest, non-ironic sense. For now, whenever I listen to the Indigo Girls, especially the song "Power of Two", I will always be reminded of my love for my parents, and for now, that will be enough.

 I should stop being rude now and go downstairs and socialize, seeing as I have awoken from my siesta. Thank god they siesta here.

-G

Continued from earlier today...

I was greeted with the warmest of welcomes at the airport this afternoon. I really wasn't expecting such a wonderful greeting, but it really made me beam from ear to ear. We drove to the house and talked the whole way. My family is so lovely and is so incredibly hospitable. The second I got to the house they sat me down with a meal and told me to make myself at home. Then we chatted for a bit, and they advised that I siesta for a while. That was totally okay with me. I went to my room and unpacked for a bit, lied down, and listened to some music. I got up around 7:00 and my host sister, Mora, and I went for a walk. It was a straight shot 10 minutes from our house to...the beach! Down by la playa, the beach, there were just so many people (on a weekday!) enjoying the beautiful weather, drinking mate, the local beverage, and running or walking their dog down the sidewalk. It's still winter here (even though it was 90 damn degrees today) so the sun set very early still, around 7:30, so by the time we approached the beach it was dark. The beautiful bridge connecting Resistencia and Corrientes was illuminated in such an enchanting way, I wish I took a picture. We walked along the beach, then meandered back home. It was so peaceful. I am thankful for that moment. When we got home, I was so pooped I crashed on the couch and watched NCIS. NCIS! I know. I'm disappointed in myself, too. But hearing it in English was a welcomed change. Then Mora and I ate dinner around 11 and talked for a while. She is remarkably kind, a trait which I feel is too often undervalued. The rapport we have is awesome. That brings us here, and I am falling asleep with my fingers still moving. More later.

-G

"Shiny Happy People" - also known as my dinner at Hermann's

Disclaimer: I'm quickly realizing this blog will mostly act as a receptacle for my various thoughts and musings on this journey. So, if it's boring or mundane or superfluous to you, dear reader, just know that I don't care. I'm writing this for myself, first and foremost, so that I don't forget the small moments that will truly make this year a unique experience. But if you do enjoy reading my unspoken thoughts, please, continue! Disclaimer over!

I didn't think it was possible to fall in love with an inanimate object, but I think it happened to me last night. Well, it was more a place than an object, but that's just semantics. Last night, my family and I dined at a small, cozy restaurant called Hermann's. We arrived around 8:30 PM. Two or three tables were occupied at this hour, and it was pretty drafty, given there were two entrances and exit doors and not many people inside. The bread was stale and not served with butter. At first I thought, "great...I'm starving and I can't even bite into this damn baguette, it's so old". But I began to notice the restaurant quickly fill up, and at about 9:00/9:30, it was absolutely full to capacity. I admired the tables of people, and how diverse the clientele was, in age, socio-economic class, gender, etc. I also was in awe of how the entire night I did not see even one glow from a cellular device (except for my own, taking dorky tourist pictures of how absolutely charming the place was). Even the "younger crowd" present at Hermann's was totally immersed in their own conversations, free of the cell-phone. Seeing old people out and about after 6 PM was very inspirational. It was, in a word, awesome. Another thing that I noticed was that at this restaurant, all the servers were at least 35+. Our waiter in particular was about 65 years old. 

*Tangent* I can confidently say, as a blanket statement, that waiters are all males, and older in age. When you try and say "thank you", if they bring you water or bread, etc, they say "No, no, of course, it's no problem at all". The waiting staff takes their job very, very seriously. They're incredibly nice, but not in the traditional American way where they smile really big and make small talk and act super nice. They are just very professional and elegant and serious when doing their job. I believe that many waiters start in their late 20's or 30's and continue for the rest of their lives. It is very much a respected and viable career option here. I bussed my plates the first day in Buenos Aires and they were offended that I did that because their job is to do everything. It's interesting and new to be waited on in such a detailed manner. It's a definite contrast to what I'm used to in the States, but it makes you feel very special :) *Tangent over*.

He reminded me of Dusty from Wes Anderson's film, The Royal Tenenbaums, but less smiley and more dignified. He took all five of our orders, all from memory (as most waiters do), and returned about 20 minutes later with piping hot food. I ordered Bife a la chorizo, the most typical cut of Argentine steak, and French fries. When Dusty served our food, it all came, quite literally, on a silver platter. It was beautiful. He took my steak with tongs, set it on my plate, spooned up the excess steak juice from the platter, and gently ladled it on my plate. He did the same with all the other meals, took the main course from the silver platter and placed it on the plate. My mom ordered Ravioli con pollo, and after swiping a few noodles I determined it was some of the Italian food I have ever eaten (Argentina is 15% Italian heritage and home to the best Italian food in world, except for Italy itself). Furthermore, the meal was the most homemade-tasting food I have eaten here so far. That, plus the wonderful ambience, made for an incredibly homey and comfortable atmosphere. As I looked around the restaurant, I saw that everyone was laughing, drinking wine and beer by the bottle, cracking jokes left and right. People were hugging and kissing friends they were meeting for dinner as if they hadn't seen each other in years. It was beautiful to sit and watch people interact this way, with so much love, happiness, and touching. Men kiss men, women kiss men, women kiss women, everyone hugs, it's wonderful. Everything was delicious, salty, and real. As our meal was winding down, an older couple walked into the restaurant. The man was walking with a cane, wore a woolen cap, and wore the most genuine smile I've ever seen. His wife was absolutely stunning. She had magnificent white hair, rosy cheeks, and very simple makeup that highlighted her natural beauty. Her combed hair was pinned back with a diamond and ruby clip. They glanced around the restaurant, only to see that no table was available. Their faces appeared as if to say, "We got all dressed up for nothing?" They looked so forlorn, my heart wanted to break right there on the spot. But fortunately, a table for two occupied by another couple just a bit younger opened up and the old couple looked so happy to sit down and enjoy a meal at Hermann's. Right away, they ordered a bottle of Malbec and I thought to myself, "good for you guys" :) Sitting in Hermann's was the most content I have felt so far. It was a wonderful evening, which made me thankful for food (good food), friends, family, beef, and even stale bread.

-G

My hair smells different already

Beginnings are the hardest part. Beginning this year-long journey is, what I believe to be, the hardest part of this entire adventure. Likewise, beginning this blog is going to be equally awkward and clunky. So here goes nothing. 

After one day in the city, I'm starting to realize how dependent we are on familiar smells for mental stability. Malt-O-Meal, the Cannon River, and freshly-cut grass are all commonplace scents to pervade the senses in Northfield. However, the list (for me, at least) pretty much ends there. Here, I've already smelled dog shit (like, 40 different pungencies already), automotive exhaust, cigarette smoke, new shampoo, beggars' blankets, supermarkets, different laundry detergent, and the leather seats in taxi cabs. It's overwhelming to smell these new things, and maybe it's silly to write about something as "trivial" as all the random shit one smells throughout the day, but it's one of the most significant adjustments I've had to make in the single day I have been in Buenos Aires. My hair now smells like all of these things, these new things which have never been in my life that I will now carry with me. I am so grateful for my life back home, but I am also thankful for a a year of a slower-paced life here in Argentina, where new smells are abound. 

New topic, no more smelly talk. The buildings here are fantastic. The Parisian-style apartment in which we (my parents and myself) are staying in for the week is low in square footage, however this is made up for by the beautiful tall ceilings and French windows which double as doors opening onto the terraces outside. The elevator which takes us up the three floors to our cozy abode is about as antiquated as it gets. There are two latticed doors which are slid shut, and the buttons are very old. But, it works! If it didn't I probably would be writing this from a hospital bed. I'll try and add a picture of it at a later date. It's pretty cool. But it was very interesting to hear that almost all the building here in Buenos Aires have these old-timey elevators. 

Another awesome things about BA is the fact that on literally (not the fake use of the word "literally" but LITERALLY) ever street corner is a café. I haven't seen a Starbucks (yet), but I love that, at least in this neighborhood, that evil monopoly hasn't totally taken over yet. Woohoo!

Now I'm about to cenar, go out to dinner, and dig into a parilla, a steak dinner. When in Argentina, eat like the Argentines do!

Adios for now.