After a few too many tearful goodbyes and “this is the last time I’m going to ____ in Argentina” moments, I left my homestay for Ezeiza International Airport yesterday afternoon. Right now, I am in the middle of a thrilling 6-hour layover in Atlanta. I know I shouldn’t whine, because I have certainly had to spend more time in airports before, but since I have been in transit since roughly 4pm yesterday… I really feel like Tom Hanks’ character in Terminal. I am living the movie where the protagonist never leaves the airport security zone. They could pay me to give people directions to whichever Seattle’s Best coffee kiosk will best suit their needs (only the one in the C terminal has yogurt parfaits).
But really, I am focusing on all of the banalities of my new airport habitat in order to avoid thinking about the gut-wrenching sadness that I feel now that my Argentine adventure has finally, officially, come to a close. I came to this trip with a passport already full of stamps, but I have never felt at home in a foreign country the way I did in Argentina.
In many ways, Buenos Aires is a totally different place than I have ever lived before. Customs like 10% (at most!) tips at restaurants and throwing out toilet paper instead of flushing it never really lost their novelty, but I found more and more that life in South America revolves around the same axis as life in the U.S. My 12-year-old host sister knows Taylor Lautner’s birthday by heart, and game day is just as big even if everyone’s tuned into fútbol (soccer) and not the NFL. It was easy to get used to the café culture, where lunch takes 1-2 hours and coffee is never para llevar, or to-go.
I’m not sure if I would have ever stopped really feeling like a foreigner if I had stayed longer, or if I return at some later date to live in B.A. for an extended period, because I know that it takes more than memorizing the city street map and learning the key phrases for ordering medialunas (glazed croissants, the typical Argentine breakfast) and taking a taxi (What route are we taking? Please slow down, you’ll kill us all!! Keep the change.) I still carry with me the mindset of an American: eating too quickly, arriving to meetings on time, or even (Gasp!) early, and refusing to wear socks with my ballet flats even on frigid (or so they would have you believe) 50 degree days.
Remarkably enough, I had no trouble taking my wine, mate, llama figurines, and a box of homemade alfajores (dulce de leche cookies that I know won’t last more than a few days in my house before disappearing) through customs. I just declared everything and pray that my extra-delicates like the wine I purchased at the bodega in Mendoza would make it through 3 airports-worth of baggage handlers…
Well, I’m going to take another lap around the airport before my final flight of the day home to Chicago. Thanks for reading!
