I’d always been set on studying abroad in a Spanish-speaking country. I had applied to colleges as a journalism and Spanish major and dreamt of being an editor at a Spanish edition of Cosmopolitan magazine. But I was—and still am—far from a traditional girl with traditional aspirations. I heard of students studying away in Spain or England or some other European getaway, but I knew even as a high school senior that that was not for me. Looking through the ten study abroad options offered through New York University, I noticed the new site in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Destiny was set then and there.
In February of 2010, I packed my bags (with way too much!) and jetted off to Buenos Aires for my spring semester of sophomore year. I was excited. I was terrified. The extent of my South American knowledge was llamas, Incan history, and tango. I had a lot to learn.
The semester flew by, almost too quickly, and I spent the best months of my academic career and life exploring my temporary home. For those five months, I was a resident Porteña (Buenos Aires inhabitant), gorging on empanadas on Avenida de Santa Fe by day, roaming the cobbled streets of Palermo by night. I became enamoured by the culture, a mix of aristocratic European-French and free-spirited Latin American. I loved hearing the romantic sounds of castellanodripping from Argentines’ tongues and even my own. I was swept up in the undying passion every Argentine possessed: for futbol, for their country, for both national and international politics (just ask any Porteno about President Obama and watch them speak animatedly).
NYU’s program gave me American solace in an academic center in the heart of Barrio Norte, while also immersing me into the culture. My professors were native Argentines who also taught at the local and prestigious La Universidad de Buenos Aires. My classes went to community-directed plays, tango classes, even marches and protests, which pushed us American students further into the reality of Buenos Aires.
My homestay family welcomed me and my roommate Emma with open arms. Our discussions around the tiny wooden table were rich with curiosity from all parties. Emma and I asked about President Cristina Kirchner and the Dirty War. Margarita and Fermin (our host mom and brother) asked us about American culture and social issues. Margarita, always a casual and lighthearted speaker, made an off-hand remark about Che Guevara being her second cousin; our jaws dropped. It wasn’t uncommon to meet a descendant of Argentine fame or historical influence!
My time abroad was surreal, a dream that I myself wouldn’t believe had I not taken albums-worth of pictures. I watched the sun rise on the Rio de la Plata as I left the boliches (dance clubs) with my friends. I danced in the streets, donning the national blue and white, to celebrate Argentina’s 200th anniversary in May. I demanded justice alongside the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo. I cursed the opposing team whenever Argentina played in the World Cup. My heart burst whenever someone mistook me as a Porteña. For those few months, I was so much more than an American living among Argentines. My academic, worldly, and personal outlooks changed. I left a different person than who I was when I arrived. I went to Argentina to perfect my Spanish, but Buenos Aires provided me with so much more. I found a new place in the world to call home. I found adventure. I found love.