Doing Research

Last Monday. It is me and the stack of papers. We sit opposite each other -- I, in a chair at the foot of the bed, and the stack, (spread out into less formidable, thematically-based mini-stacks), all over the bed itself. I sip my coffee and look at the blank notebook page I've opened on my lap, trying to absorb something from the stack before I begin pondering things on paper. The stack doesn't cooperate. He's cold, lifeless, comfortable in how large he's grown. Hey, look at me, I'm so fucking big you couldn't even begin to cram all of me into a single backpack! We really aren't on great terms, the stack and I. I keep one eyebrow raised, considering him over the rim of my coffee mug as I sip. Neither of us moves. We are bandits, we're out west, we're fingering our six-shooters. Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all the excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum . . .

I eventually wade through the stack, leafing over the streaks of yellow and orange. Thoughts are occurred to me, things are scribbled in the notebook, I put down any drivel that comes to mind, in an effort to just get the gears going. I get up, I re-heat my coffee, I return to the chair, I squint at the stack, I nod and then scribble when the stack offers two dots, connected, and I get up, re-heat again.

Eventually a pattern develops. I spend 20 or 30 minutes intimating the thoughts and feelings of the stack. My coffee gets cold, thus prompting the 15-foot walk to the microwave, followed by about 5 to 10 minutes of pacing the 20-foot length of the apartment as I wait for the handle of the coffee mug to cool (since I inevitably heat it for too long) so that I can pick it up and bring it back over to the stack. The pacing is not a waste, in fact is crucial to the research process, giving me forward motion to re-think everything I've just written, to talk to myself outside the earshot of the stack, to hear aloud how brilliant or utterly ridiculous all of the past 30 minutes' thoughts have been, to work out the ever-present jitters from the caffeine. I've been pacing since about sophomore year of undergrad, it's perhaps among the greatest research methods ever devised.

The ongoing thought process -- since that's what research is, I think, is one really long thought spread out over a period of weeks or months or years and then divided up into little subheadings and clever chapter titles -- unfolds healthily but remains very dense, a thicket of ideas that does its best to clump together. Is the informal economy this, or is it that? Why are you studying these people and not those people? Ethnography or grounded theory? Method is everything -- (or method is nothing! Method is irrelevant, data is what you make of it, everything is just out there in the ether, waiting for you to just . . . I don't know, shape it or something! Turn it into your own proverbial origami swan!) I spend the week pacing, debating all these things with myself. Mostly I annoy the hell out of myself (will you just stop asking that? It's ethnography, you jackass, it was always ethnography! . . . or was it?). I shuffle the stack around, flipping articles open and closed, paper clips flying everywhere, highlighting new bits when I re-read with newfound closeness (how could I have been so flippantly amateur, how could I not have read this part, this singularly relevant paragraph in the whole 15 pages?)

Eventually, as the week rolls on, I drag certain chosen pieces of the stack over to the computer, haphazardly building an elite little satellite stack. I type, I pace (now using a kind of triangular approach, moving from desk to microwave, microwave to bed, bed to desk . . . ) and I think I'm typing good things. I'm firm, I'm declarative, I'm taking a stand on all this informal economy business and dammit -- none of you are going to make a peep about it. I feel a bit like the 16-year-old kid who tries to buy beer, hiding behind his wimpy little 16-year-old mustache in an ingenious act of misdirection. If I just use strong language, I think, just write in a clear, no-funny-business kind of way -- there's nothing trivial about this topic, sir, nothing light or linguistically whimsical, fluffy, no colorful metaphors or clever allusions or any of that nonsense here, sir, no, no hanky panky in this paper -- whoever reads this will actually believe that I am a grown-up, and that the informal economy is this thing that I have so confidently declared it to be. (Of course! How could it be otherwise! His writing is so . . . dry, it must be true!)

I spend pretty much my whole week immersed in this pacing, typing, linguistic chestbeating process. I actually make some serious progress, correcting some of the earlier fundamental problems of the study. I manage to piece together a small re-proposal, in which I restate exactly what I theorize the informal economy to be (conceptual clarification) and specify exactly what I hope to find over the next nine months. By Friday I have turned the study upside down, expanding my subject population from Subte (subway) salespeople to salespeople in public space generally. I'm going to compare all these different types of people. In doing this, I sort of "sociologize" the project, making my research aims more amenable to hypothesis, overcoming a lot of my major theoretical stumbling blocks. My survey questions are different. The dry writing reassures me. I have a direction. Phew.

But then I start meandering through some of my methodological literature for the first time in a while. I read back over the adage that one must choose the method to fit the question, not the question to fit the method. In other words, ask something first, then decide how to answer it. I second guess myself for the 843rd time since considering applying for the Fulbright. Did I rebuild my study because I wanted an easier method, because I wanted to be able to declare Yes, worry not, I have a hypothesis, I am not a crazy person, this is an actual social scientific endeavor! ? Is my original question -- who are these people on the Subte?, how did they get here?, etc. -- still answerable if I more carefully construct my method? Should I . . . re-rebuild the study?

Panic, chaos ensue. Buildings collapse, children cry, survivors develop alcohol problems. Every fucking solution, I lament with my face in my hands on the following Monday, yesterday, is fucking wrong.

I go to the office, hoping to inspire myself by sheer, you know, bravado or something, having taken the initiative to actually travel all the way to the office, where I do some class of intellectual work that I cannot do in my apartment, apparently. I luckily find one of my professors there, Lula, who I manage to book for a half hour meeting the next day. What might I say to her? I don't really even know. But it seems time to make a move, to declare aloud that, yes, I am being swallowed by my own indecisive nitpicking, my own idiocy and/or brilliance.

On Tuesday I meet with Lula. I lay it all out there. No one understands why I am studying these people. I don't understand why I'm studying these people. This method won't answer this question, that method won't answer that question, and I'm losing sight of the reasons that I actually proposed this thing in 2007. I can go with Route A or Route B, chosen from among a much larger collection of possible Routes, and what do you think Lula I'm panicking and maybe crashing and burning and I have to make a presentation to a bunch of important people from the State Department in Uruguay next week aaaand . . . ?

I say all that, but far less maniacally, in a way that makes me appear to be just a quasi-stumped young researcher. My life is together, I exude, just complicated. I wear a polo shirt to emphasize my ability to dress office casual. (I also go without an undershirt, emphasizing my ability to dress like an Argentine in a polo shirt). Without really trying to be, Lula is extremely reassuring. She looks at the various things that I have typed up and sees that I am at a crossroads in terms of topic and method, but she doesn't really think I have a problem: she thinks most of the theoretical problems I was having early on can be solved by just going with this alternative method (called "grounded theory") that I started considering the other day. We end up talking for something like an hour, and I am surprised at how eloquently and clearly I'm able to explain my problems. She asks a whole bunch of questions about how much background literature I've read and in doing so makes me realize that she really knows what she's doing and, just as importantly, seems to know exactly what I am doing.

We conclude that I will go with grounded theory and will stick with the focus on the Subte, pending the development of a preliminary questionnaire in the next week or two. Something seems to have clicked into place, I feel. I wander out of the office exuberant. Next week I go to Uruguay (week-long Fulbright conference) and when I return I will finalize my questionnaire and begin looking for informants. The hands-on research begins in about two weeks. Out of the office and into the streets.

And that's what it feels like to do research.


[Aside: did I go a little over the top with the self-deprecating sarcasm? Too many italics? I'm trying to find my voice here so I enjoy whatever comments you have...]

Jack Kerouac Style

On Friday of last week I dispensed with the usual slew of pre-outing text messages, opting to take a night solo in the general spirit of adventure and meeting new people and what have you. I headed to a bar called Flux, a small basement place I'd met some Americans at a couple years ago, and in spite of it being midnight on a Friday the place was quiet, tranquilo. I sit myself down at the bar and after a minute start up a conversation with an Argentine to my left. His name is Luigi, and he quickly falls in love with me, as is the Latino courtship style, and though he leaves the bar after just a few minutes, he spends the rest of his weekend texting me. I'm ambivalent. I'm a friendly bar-goer, at best.

After Luigi rolls out I turn to my other side, where two mid-30s British guys are standing, and I strike up a conversation there as well. These guys, Matthew and Austin, are from London, honeymooning (apparently the gays are getting married in Britain, these days) and are wandering around South America for about three weeks. They make occasional sardonic references to Bush or Obama, to which whoever didn't make the potentially offending comment always says, "Oh, you had to take it there!" as though Americans are embarrassed by both of their major political parties (aren't we?). We get into the basics, what I'm doing here, what they're doing here, what we're doing back home, what music we listen to. Turns out that while in Rio the week before, on their way up to the Big Jesus, they happened to be riding (in a car? one of those trolley things? I don't know how you get up there) with a guy who runs the lights at Radiohead shows. Like me, one of them is a huge Radiohead fan, and it just so happens that the band is coming to Buenos Aires in the coming week (this past Tuesday, now). Tickets -- if not sold out -- are running at US$100 (far too much for my meager wages) but these guys manage to score a pair of free VIP passes from this trolley-traveling Jesus-seeking fellow. We run through the albums -- Kid A at the top of my list, The Bends (an older-school choice) at the top of Matthew's -- and then through Brit rock that's made it across the Atlantic generally. "From the floor of my room sophomore year," I tell them, "through those big Bose-style headphones, Champaign Supernova turned me into a stoner." It was a lame comment, but I couldn't help myself: it was the closest I'll get to personally thanking Oasis. And now I have to listen to a band called Pulp, because it's going to change my life.

The Brits know one of the bartenders here -- an English expat -- who recommends to them "an indie bar" about 15 blocks away. They ask if I want to come along and take care of translation needs, so we jump in a cab (15 blocks in this area isn't bad, but a distance like that at night is always wiser by car) and in 10 minutes we take to a sparsely populated dancefloor. They pick up a round of Budweisers (because I'm an American?) and we shift and sway and pass little messages from person to person like a game of international telephone. We scope and chat and Austin humorously waves his ring finger whenever the topic of marriage comes up. I cannot ascertain whether the gesture indicates ecstasy, exhaustion, or terror. My gut says ecstasy is the intention, but every time I see it I still think: terror.

I later catch the eye of a skinny, lightly-bearded Argentine, who smiles at me and laughs to himself when I smile back. Who laughs when you're flirting from across the room? Is this something people laugh at? I'm a pretty good audience, so the absurdity of this makes me chuckle, too. But I'm lost in a mob of people, on my way to get a round of drinks, so the laughter ends there, until I end up back at the Brits a few minutes later and the porteno (a porteno is a someone from BsAs) is there. The four of us talk for a bit -- the Brits share my love of Arrested Development, saying that when people say that Americans have no sense of humor (fuck, do people say that?) that's the show they point them to -- until the Argentine -- Andres -- and I end up talking off to the side. He speaks perfect English, studied law (for a semester) at Columbia (until the U.S. government kicked him out over a visa snaffu, though he was a legitimate student at the time) and has a norteamericano boyfriend from Seattle that lives in BsAs. He knows what Fulbright is. Argentines who know Fulbright are of a certain intellectual class, usually, and this speaks well of Andres. I tell him I'm tired of being hit on by transparent Argentines like Luigi, and that he should keep the boyfriend. We re-join with the Brits -- and the bartender from Flux who has now shown up -- and now, at 4:30, unable to last any longer, I head home solo to crash and burn asleep.

On Saturday night, I meet back up with Andres at a street corner in Palermo, and we catch a bus south towards Parque Centenario to check out a party his friend is throwing. It's 1:45 in the morning. To start any sooner, for the Argentines, would be incomprehensibly lame.

The party is in this slightly run-down, unoccupied little townhouse/apartment building thing. It's only a two- or three-floor set-up. Andres's friend's aunt owns the place and is looking to get rid of it, but as she apparently can't find a buyer, the home sits hollow as a cave, save for 100 inebriated Argentines who move and shake and light things on the rooftop. We all meander into little pockets where there's space to stand, shifting to the music, feeling a cool breeze under a surprising abundance of stars in the geographical center of a huge metropolis. As the night wears on, the air fills with the scent of sweat and harsh tobacco, and when the marijuana washes over us I am elsewhere, I am back in North America, I'm at RFK stadium and I'm 17 at a sunny HFStival, and I'm in Baltimore exhaling out over I-83 from a slanted rooftop on St. Paul Street. I am a million places and it's new and old and fresh and stale all at once. I am where I wanna be, like always.

Andres and I talk to a gay Aussie he knows who has been traveling South America for five months and leaves for London on Monday, to meander yet another continent. When we introduce ourselves, and he mentions going to London, he has to clarify that he's Australian -- I realize that Americans are probably in the habit of assuming he's British (as I had, at first). But I play it cool and don't make an ass out of myself. The guy is funny, kind of a ditz, and he spends five or ten minutes trying to relate the beat of an Argentine song he recently heard. He's looking for the song's title. The performance is pretty amusing but he doesn't get an answer out of anyone.

I drink a little red wine I found in the next room over (also open-air rooftop). I take it slow and enjoy another friend of Andres's who relates to us a number of humorous and self-deprecating stories about sociology professors she's slept with. Apparently sociologists are sexy. I plan to keep this in mind.

Hours pass and new people come and go through the crowd, and sometime after 5:00AM we begin to plot our exit. I leave with Andres, the Australian, and another Argentine. We wish the Aussie luck and he hops in a cab. Andres and I split our own taxi back to our neighborhood, I jump out at my block as he continues on, saying we'll meet up in a week. I crash at 6:00 in the morning.

I spend the following weekdays buried in research lit relating to my project, reading and reading and reading as much as I can. I feel lost, I feel heavy . . . occasionally there are minor breakthroughs, points where I not only highlight a passage but really highlight the shit out of this motherfucker . . . I'm throwin' an asterisk down on this guy! I do this all week long, absorbing as much of the dense Spanish writing as I can, and at the end of it I just hope that some point of synthesis is on the horizon. I don't know if I have too much background info, not enough . . . I might not have any idea what I'm doing. In fact . . . . I'm fairly certain that I have little idea what I'm doing. But I push through, trusting that all those asterisks will add up to enlightenment in the coming weeks.

I find a copy of Jurrasic Park in Spanish. Parque Jurasico. Sweet.

"But it's not a lizard," said Ellie.
"No. This is not a lizard: in 200 million years, not a single lizard with three toes has walked on this planet," said Grant.

But then what could it be, Dr. Grant?!

In Holland, They Have Drugs and Free Love

Buenos Aires is going great – I’m struggling a bit with the theoretical justification for my study, but I’m meeting new people all the time and really getting a kick out of every day. The language is still a constant challenge, but I get better with every conversation and can see myself improving all the time. I’m starting to pick up a lot of new slang, and I’m finding that the more different people I can meet and get to know, the better I am at fielding new random encounters. I’m really learning a lot and thriving pretty well in the new digs.

I met a lot of new people in a lot of different places this weekend, so I’m going to give a little rundown. On Thursday, I went to this conversation hour called “Spanglish” (a word my mom thinks she invented) at a hookah bar about 15 blocks from me. The idea is you go, you pay to participate, get a free beer, and speak Spanish for five minutes with a native speaker, then switch to English for five minutes. Then you move to a new person and on and on it goes. Yay, everybody learns. It was my second time going and I actually had a really good time both times – I think the alcohol kind of loosens everybody up, and you end up with a really fun crowd of people from all over the world and all over Argentina.

Inevitably the tables all get mixed up and everyone stops switching around after about an hour. I ended up at a table with two Dutch girls (sisters) in their 20s and an Argentine from Mar del Plata (about four hours south of BA). As the conversation program wrapped up, we were really getting along and I wondered aloud if you could actually smoke the hookahs (as nobody was doing it). So we wandered over to where there was a pipe sitting by some couches and asked the waitress about it, and the next thing you know we’re a few beers deep and smoking hookah (something I used to look for a lot in Argentina, but could never find!).

The Dutch girls speak perfect English, and I end up talking to one of them, Kim, about everything in our lives. We talk about stereotypes that people apply to our respective countries (“Yes, Holland, we have drugs and free love, wooo”, she laughs) and at some point get to our love lives, when I correctly stereotype that as someone from Holland she must be socially liberal and down with gays. We talk about our ex-boyfriends and ideal boyfriends for a bit, and she tells me that she sees something unique in me and that life is going to work out for me. It was sort of a deep moment. She says she wasn’t expecting to stay at the bar long, but after we’d talked for a few minutes she knew in her gut that it’d be a good night if she could get me to stick around (as I had almost left earlier). We talked about St. Patty’s Day and my parents’ annual party, and when she asked what we did in particular to celebrate – um, we get all of the fun people in Ashburn to show up at our house and drink a lot – I almost wasn’t sure what to say. Then I went into a somber explanation of the only really unique thing about the party (aside from it being a gathering of fun people in Ashburn): my dad’s toast around midnight to family and friends who have passed away. The retelling came out solemn – as it is a serious thing – and I actually felt a little sad and proud of my family for a moment. (I know, you can’t believe it, somewhere inside my asshole-center I do actually care about you all.) I do miss you guys, though I know there will be plenty more St. Patty’s parties to come. Kim thought it was a thoughtful tradition.

After about four or five hours at the bar, the night finally wound down, and we all parted ways. Kim was only in town for the week, visiting her sister, who lives here for the year with her Argentine boyfriend. Kim was super generous and covered the cost of the hookah (after we’d both taken turns buying each other drinks in a who-can-be-more-generous competition, since apparently the Dutch are rumored to be cheap and, therefore, go way out of their ways to prove that they’re NOT cheap) and said that anytime I’m in Rotterdam, Holland, I have a free place to stay. It was a great night, and though she has already left town, I’ll hopefully be meeting up with her sister, Tamara, on St. Patrick’s Day. Really won’t forget that one.

Friday I headed into the office, ran into one of my professors, who introduced me to a third professor who specializes in the informal economy. I’m going to meet up with her on Tuesday to discuss some of the theoretical problems I’m having with my research. Then I ended up being introduced to a few of the other profs in the office, and solidified my status as a member of the group by participating in the “Can I get you a little coffee?” ritual when I got up to get my cappuccino. I knew that I was officially accepted when someone else offered the same to me later on. (The anthropologist in me watches for these things . . . )

On Saturday I wandered way out to a part of the city I really don’t know, near a soccer stadium, to join some people who do ultimate Frisbee pick-up games. I had to wander between soccer fields for a while and under some highways (not as sketchy as it sounds, but still mildly adventurous) before I finally found the field. The people were all really friendly, the whole endeavor was really laid back, and I got to run around for the first time in forever. You forget how much fun organized sports can be after you completely stop participating in them. I hadn’t really done anything like this since high school, more or less, but it was fun. I met a lot of Argentines and a few Americans, and will be back next week.

Saturday night I met back up with the Argentine we’d been smoking hookah with, Emanuel, and we went to this party in a little rowhouse-type place that I’d heard about. It was a slow night, but I talked to this guy nonstop, getting him to explain as much slang as I could (he wanted the same from me, in English). Later in the night, an Argentine played some acoustic guitar for about a 45-minute set, with bangos as backup, which was pretty cool. The crowd in the place was very hipster-like. Ended up running into this Argentine girl I’d met at Spanglish (very rare to randomly do that in a city of this size) and agreed to hang out on St. Patrick’s Day. Apparently at night there are parties in the streets downtown near some Irish pubs, so it looks like that’s where I’ll be.

And that was my weekend. This was the longest post ever, and I am now exhausted. I’ll be sure to write some boring stuff about my research troubles in a day or two. I’m working through it all, doing a lot of sitting around drinking coffee, listening to music and brainstorming new angles for how to go about this thing. I’ve been putting a lot of time into just thinking and writing (and re-writing, a lot), and I usually get a breakthrough or two if I put a few hours into it. I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel for my current theory problem, but I’d still rather be getting my hands dirty with actual on-site observation than sitting around trying to solve things that should have been solved a long time ago. But this is the nature of research – constant revision to get things as sharp as possible. Just being on the ground with professors who have expertise in the subject matter should do a world of good for me.

And I’m out! Thanks for reading, kids.

The beer seems to have improved slightly.

Argentina, in my mind, is infamous for its poor brew selection. The national domestic beer of choice, Quilmes, is just...well it's just god-awful, it's like watered down Coors Light. I only used to drink it when I was trying to get wasted (which, in 2007, was probably a lot of the time) but now they've come up with a few slightly darker varieties of both Quilmes and its Brazilian competitor, Brahma (which I prefer), thus improving my quality of life significantly. This was a serious concern prior to my arrival. (The wine, however, was and still is very top notch and very cheap when buying from within the country).

I've been here a little over a week now, and things are going well. It's not an easy transition, but it's happening and I'm rolling with the punches. I hung out with a 2008 Fulbright (who has extended her stay through April of this year) on Saturday, in an area of the city I'd never been to (yet another large and fantastic park), and we ended up at this outdoor tango show in one of the city's bigger parks, drinking wine in the grass with some of her friends. There were maybe 10 of us, a mix of Argentines and foreigners, and everyone was really friendly and relaxed. The day itself was long and exhausting but the evening's close was really fitting, all the language and the bottles of wine getting all mixed up in that hazy summer evening kind of way. On the walk back to where we could catch buses and taxis, I talked to this med student girl from Paris about my project, and we discussed life and the collapsing world economy and whether we could live in Argentina long-term...it was a good conversation in Spanish, and I spoke easily, aside from my accent, which was reassuring for me. When my nerves get to me in new situations, sometimes I speak very haltingly, but when it flows, it flows. Those moments are so sweet.

On the way to this outdoor concert, the Fulbrighter (Jess) and I were kind of comparing notes on what we'd expected to get from our time in Argentina. At some point I said that one of my larger goals was to learn to make friends more effectively in a foreign environment, that last time I had let the culture shock get to me and hadn't really felt socially comfortable until the later months (which were, in a way, too late). This time I have been much more adaptive, as planned. I thought I was sort of baring myself on a whim, since we were getting along well, and that my goal was sort of obviously admirable. But Jess interpreted it in a way that I didn't expect. She sort of paused the conversation and then said, "Well, is that really what you want, to just have a bunch of superficial social experiences that go away after you're gone? I mean when I went home and saw my friends after being gone for a year, there was just such a different feeling being in that social situation versus this one. There's just something there that takes years to build up."

We sort of debated the point back and forth for a bit, and I think there was some miscommunication at first, but we agreed that the thrust of what I wanted to work towards -- acquiring that skill of being able to be content in any context, familiar or foreign, alone or not -- was straightforwardly desirable. Nonetheless, her perspective has kind of stuck with me. I can feel when I spend time with people here that I am, in some way, just trying to feed a little tick in my head that compels me to be social. Meeting new people is great and interesting -- always enlightening in some way -- and I'm enjoying doing that here. But there's this little feeling of exhaustion that grows when you continue to lack a deeper connection in your social world. It's almost like you can't feel like yourself: you are always the new guy or the foreigner, never someone that people already understand. And as that deeper part of you goes untouched for a while, it starts to feel like it's not there at all. It's a disorienting experience, like being in solitary confinement in spite of being surrounded by people all the time. It's the nature of a new place like this, but it tires me out some days.

I'm working through all this stuff very well, though. I've been heading to "my office" enough that I'm sorta starting to become a "regular" to the people that work there (I think), and tomorrow I'm gonna hit up a beginner's tango class. All of you know that I am an awful dancer and that in normal circumstances it takes an open bar in order for me to reveal this awfulness to the world, but I'm feeling pretty electric with the culture these days and this is a good way to dive in. How cool would I be if I could tango when I came home? A friend recommended this place as a good one to meet young people at, so hopefully it'll help from that angle, too. I also joined a gym today, which, you know, is probably not a place where I'll be meeting lots of people but, you know, if I meet some at the tango class or work or whatever, I'll be able to be super attractive and in good shape, which can only help (plus, once I can tango, I'll be an exotic norteamericano who (shock!) knows how to tango!). These things altogether are part of my plan to become irrestibly interesting to Argentines and norteamericanos alike.

This post was a little somber. But next one -- update on the study, in which I have had a minor conceptual breakthrough, and about which the librarian woman talked to me for like 40 minutes today because she thought it was so fascinating (begin becoming super interesting to the argentines: check!).

Thanks for reading!

Todo se va bien...

Day 4 in Buenos Aires! I'm here, my apartment is all set up (although still lacking in foodstuffs), and the whole re-immersion into porteno culture has begun. The past few days have been a rush of finding various little things I need, avoiding getting hit by cars, and meeting back up with friends and professors. I've obviously been a little slow getting the blogging thing going, but the weather has been so nice (generally hovering around a sunny 80 degrees farenheight, not bad in this town) that I have a hard time commiting myself to my computer for more than the more obligatory study-related email stuff. But I'm excited to dump some info on everyone!

I'm living in an 8th-floor studio apartment in a nice neighborhood called Palermo ("es muy fashion", my friend told me the other day) and I could not love the place more. Many thanks go out to Laura and Juan, the Massachussetts couple from whom I'm renting. The apartment faces West, so that in the mornings it's very well shaded, and by afternoon it just lights up. Everything is furnished very nicely, and there's something about the coloring in here that just gives it a nice ambience. I even have a little balcony (these are much more common in BA than in the U.S., I think) where I can sit and check out the skyline. And the skyline is nice, too: the way the building is positioned, facing inward instead of towards the street, I can see a whole slew of buildings around me. Somehow that helps me feel like I'm part of the community, even as I live alone.

The cultural adjustment has been swift and good, as far as I can tell so far. (One of the tricks of culture shock, at least for me, is that it tends to sneak up after you think you're done learning your new digs.) But I've already lived here at some length (5 months, last time), and it's really a different experience coming back. First of all, if traveling abroad seems like a surreal experience the first time you do it, then traveling back to the same place two years later seems like a HYPER surreal experience. Every time I wander into a place that I used to see regularly (on my first day, for example, I went looking for empanadas and ended up wandering through Rodriguez Pena Park, where I used to sit and read a lot) there's like this whole, "Whoa, it's STILL here!" monologue that runs through my head. Then I invariably spend 5 or 10 minutes feeling giddy that, yes, the park does indeed still exist and, yes, you are walking through it again. I know this sounds really inane, but a good chunk of the last several days have been spent doing this all over the city. It's just a very rewarding experience to be back.

As far as other adjustments go, a lot of it just returns so quickly. For some reason, when I was boarding my flights out of the U.S., I felt like I hadn't mentally prepared myself to be back in a Spanish-immersed environment. I suddenly worried that I would be overwhelmed by the experience of coming back, but the exact opposite has happened. The plane landed, I started speaking Spanish, and I never really looked back. I'm certainly still speaking more sluggishly than I was when I left in July '07, but I'm waaay ahead of where I was when I originally started here. The more I speak, the more the random nuggets of vocab just appear in my brain right when I need them. The little interactions (with cab drivers, vendors, people in the street) are smooth and completely unproblematic; the longer conversations with friends are tougher, but I can already see an improvement between Tuesday and Wednesday. Yesterday I met with my two professor-advisors to discuss the nuts and bolts of my study and go over the preliminary questionnaire I'd prepared, and although I missed things here and there, the 2-hour conversation went noticeably better than the one I'd had with some friends (who work at the study abroad agency I came through in '07) the day before. Occasionally I missed things, but...everyone I know here is so nice, and they constantly brushed off the miscommunications, telling me to just wait a few weeks and I would be fine.

I also went to dinner with my friend Rafa (Rafael) last night, ironically at a Mexican restaurant (this is ironic because many of you like to ask me things like "do you eat tacos all the time?" or "how extremely spicy is the food?", and in fact there are probably more Mexican restaurants and spicy food outlets in Ashburn, VA than in Buenos Aires, Argentina; thus it seems ironic that the first restaurant I tell you about is Mexican, when I'm constantly telling you I don't eat Mexican food here). Rafa works about 20 blocks from where I live, in Palermo Soho, one of the main chic restaurant areas of the city. We went to La Taco Fabrica (The Taco Factory) and chilled in this little walled-in outdoor area in the back; it was very zen-like, with pebbles covering the floor and vines on the walls, very nice atmosphere. Although my brain was tired from already processing a lot of Spanish during the day, we hung out for a couple hours and I had a couple Coronas, something that always helps loosen up the ol' linguistic gears. Conversation went well, and I went home feeling very good about myself for the day.

I have yet to really begin my study, but meeting my professors yesterday was a productive first step. They actually ripped a pretty good "new one" in my questionnaire, but I felt good about the meeting anyway because I already knew that the thing had significant problems. At my stage of academic development, I guess there's still something reassuring in having somebody tell you specifically what's wrong with what you're doing. I need to better focus my project and my questions, but I'm well-equipped to do that and went into the meeting knowing this. This is my first major, long-term academic endeavor, but I suddenly realize the utility of all those semster-long class projects you do in undergrad. (You know, those ones where you have to pick some kind of thesis-like topic, and then sort of formally propose it, then meet with the professor one-on-one, at which point you quickly surmise that you're in way over your head and oh-my-god-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life-I'll-never-pass-this-class-maybe-I-should-just-quit sets in, but in the end you do the project and it comes out imperfect but strong enough and you feel proud that you took on something big). Well, those experiences really prepare you for something, and that is handling the stress that can so easily accompany a project like mine. People have put time, faith, and money into me so that I can execute this thing, and now it's important to me that I follow through meaningfully. I know I will, and luckily my life experiences have taught me that I'm supposed to f' up the first few steps in situations like this, so I have to just keep trying. I don't mean that the project is a train wreck or anything, just that my questions need to be re-crafted to sort of . . . well it's a lot of methodological mumbo jumbo, but I need to focus the questions around fewer topics, and at the same time better design them to elicit drawn-out responses from respondents. (You never want yes-no answers in a study like this.) And this is a lot trickier than it sounds, but my professors were extremely supportive and told me I could use their workspace (basically just this floor full of professors and vacant desks in some university-related building) whenever I felt like it. So, things are starting as expected, starting well.

So that's Buenos Aires, today! Today I'm going to be doing some mundane research stuff and hopefully getting some errands done. On Saturday I have plans to hang out with another (American) Fulbright student who's been here for a year, and outside of that hopefully I'll catch Rafa again, and maybe find myself some food that I can actually figure out how to cook. This is probably just as good a time as any to learn that skill... I miss everybody a ton already, and I love hearing from you, so comments or emails or facebook or whatever, I love getting stuff from you all. Talk to you soon!