Christmas gift roundup

Pictured: The Christmas tree at my grandma's house.

GIFTS RECEIVED THAT I'M OK WITH:

An aquamarine button-down shirt, one size too big. Classic sneakers from the new retro hip-hop themed Adidas store. A short-sleeved Levi’s shirt. An Andy Warhol-themed notepad.

BEST GIFT RECEIVED (from Malaria): A 50-peso Wal-Mart gift certificate (I lurve me some Wally World) along with a ticket to the Kevin Johansen concert AND a furry grabby koala from the 80s.

WORST GIFT RECEIVED: A pair of moss-green boxers with tiny beer mugs on them. Here’s what that gift says to me: “I know you’re an alcoholic.” And “you have the sense of humor of an 18-year-old.” And “I bet you never get laid.”

GIFTS GIVEN BY ME:

This year, I decided my theme would be “things bought on the street.” So that’s exactly what I did. And to complete the effect, I wrapped my gifts in newspaper. Technically, the gifts I got for my parents weren’t bought on the street, but I felt they wouldn’t fully appreciate the humor and genius of cheap merchandise bought on the train.

MOM: A sushi set bought at the Japanese Gardens (dish + matching purple chopsticks).

DAD: The entire discography of Cream (cost: whatever three blank CDs run you these days).

DYSLEXIA: A cool-ass wrinkly leather coin purse with the handpainted face of a curly-haired girl (Dyslexia has curly hair, so I told her that’s why I got it for her).

FOOLIA: A weird, Tim Burton-esque doll with buttons for eyes. And a rubber duckie.

BEST GIFT GIVEN BY ME (to Malaria): A regulation size and weight pool ball, number 12 to be precise. At first, I told her I had stolen it from a pool hall. It makes for a badass decorative item. And/or weapon. I’ve decided that I’ll give her a different numbered ball every year, thus completing the entire set by the time she turns 38.

WINNER OF THE FIRST ANNUAL CHRISTMAS CONTEST: Malaria.

I am officially making Christmas a competitive sport from now on.

היהודים

Christmas at my house this year was almost exactly like last year, except that this time I decided to mix it up by inviting a Jew.

I had met Efrat, a 21-year-old, post-military-service Israeli girl with a disconcertingly perfect American accent, in Salta. She had mentioned that she’d be in Buenos Aires at the end of the year and that she was looking forward to finding out what Christmas was all about.

“Wanna come to my grandma’s?” I offered. “I have to warn you, we sing Christmas carols. In GERMAN.”

Efrat was ecstatic. It makes sense; on a scale of 1 to Christmas, a family gathered around the piano singing “Oh Tannenbaum!” ranks pretty high up there.

Around my family, I was purposely vague about Efrat's possible visit. In the middle of a conversation with my mom, I told her that "oh, a backpacker girl I met might stop by for Christmas," and walked away before she could object or push me for details.

Efrat rang my doorbell a few hours before Christmas Eve, lugging her enormous backpack, scruffy and exhausted from a cross-country bus trip from Chile. First, she took a shower, which was pointless because we went bike riding immediately afterward and got sweaty again. Then we changed into our nice clothes.

She grinned her way through all our traditions, from the family photo to the gift exchange, painstakingly documenting the whole process. She made it to dinner unscathed. Occasionally, my grandma would order me to translate the mundane conversation at the table.

“What does she CARE how my cousin is doing at school?” I’d reply, exasperated.

“It doesn’t matter,” said my grandma. “She must feel bad that she doesn’t know what everyone’s talking about.”

Turns out, she did know what was being talked about. She piped in when, for some reason, my sisters were discussing the merits of “The Day After Tomorrow” vs. “2012”. Apparently we had underestimated Efrat’s Spanish comprehension. This was once again proven later in the night, when my grandma decided to tell Efrat that she had such a pretty little face, and Efrat smiled and thanked her.

My mom took it upon herself to make sure Efrat’s every need was catered to.

“Are you still hungry, Efrit?” she’d ask, while I tried to suppress a chuckle. Efrit sounds more like a potato-chip brand than a name.

When we got home, a supremely tired Efrat went to bed and woke up 12 hours later. (So did I, but I have no excuse for that.) We spent the next afternoon trading knowledge: I shared my music and songs and some Spanish, she taught me conversational Hebrew. I’m happy to report that I can successfully say “that wrestler must be an immigrant.”

Late in the evening I accompanied her to her hostel, smack dab in the middle of downtown. She suggested we grab free dinner at a nearby Chabad house. I had no idea these places existed; basically, these Chabad houses are synagogues that double up as dining rooms on Friday nights and get completely filled with young, thrifty Israeli travelers looking to save a buck. Only Hebrew is spoken. You are allowed to skip the prayer part and show up only for dinner (which we did). I learned to say “please pass the eggplant” in Hebrew. I had no idea what everyone else was talking about during dinner, so, in effect, mine and Efrat’s roles from the previous day were reversed. That’s what I call a cultural exchange.

Somehow I managed to befriend two guys sitting next to me at the table, and the four of us all made our way back to the hostel for some beers.

“Are you two together?” one of the guys asked me when Efrat got up to go to the bathroom.

“No, no, we just met a few days ago,” I said, amused. “Why, are you thinking of swooping in?”

“Me?” said the guy. “No man. I’m gay.”

Even my Hebrew gaydar is off, apparently.

A true story

Sorry, Tolkien, you're mistaken

J.R.R. Tolkien apparently at one point said that the words "cellar door" were two of the most beautiful in the English language.

Wrong. I have discovered the four most beautiful words in the English language (five, technically, because one is a contraction) and they are as follows:

"I'm on birth control."

Three inventions that will change the world

With the end of the year approaching, all the unoriginal newsweeklies are coming up with their best-of lists and their 100 Technologies That Have Changed Our Life Forever. Not here, no sir. What you will get, though, are three things I discovered during my trip around the more desolate parts of Argentina and Bolivia. I feel that these have vast profit potential in the big city.

1. SHARED CABS -- Oruro, La Paz, and everywhere else, Bolivia

Cabs are expensive. We all know that. Well, picture this: you're trashed at the bar and a cab pulls up. It'll cost you 20 bucks to get home, and you're considering braving the blizzard outside. You walk up to the driver and tell him where you're going, hoping for a pity discount. "Wait here a second," he tells you. Then he gets out and starts yelling on the sidewalk: "I'm going to Central Hillside! Anyone want to go to Central Hillside?" Then he goes into the bar and announces your destination to everyone. Before you know it, you have three travel mates and you're each paying just $5 for the trip. It's eco-friendly and probably more fun than riding alone.

You want an even cheaper ride, you say? How about a van that rides around with its rear door open and some dude screaming out the general destination of said van? As in: "going north, north to the airport, north to the airport, who wants to go north!" and then you get to jump on at any corner and pay less than a dollar to get anywhere. Now I don't want to hear griping about liability issues and insurance. Shut your face. This is awesome. Someone make it happen.

2. PAY-PER-VIEW -- Salta, Argentina

The Salta bus terminal has tiny individual televisions screwed into the floor in front of most of the seats where weary passengers rest. They work just like your TV at home: full array of cable channels; adjustable volume. Except you have to put in a 25-cent coin to make it work. Literally, pay-per-view.

Assuming this service is cheap, which I didn't test for myself (I found it easier to just sit beside someone who had paid and mooch off their TV time), it's wonderful. No more watching mind-numbing CNN at the airport (or, worse, Airport TV). You can catch a sports game or a movie or local channels. After spending so many hours staring at the wall waiting for the bus, few travelers can resist coughing up a few coins for entertainment. Everybody wins.

3. PANCHUQUE -- Tucuman, Argentina

The panchuque is all the rage up north. The word is a combination of pancho, Spanish for hot dog, and panqueque, which means pancake. It's what it sounds like: a hot dog, except instead of being wrapped in a bun, it's dipped and cooked in pancake batter.

This sounds suspiciously like a corn dog, and yes, it mostly tastes like corn dog. But you have to understand that a) corn dogs have yet to make it to Argentina, b) these don't have a stick in the middle, and c) they're not fried, so they taste just as good while being healthier. Oh, and d), they do this thing where they slice open the pancake shell and introduce the condiments of your choice before they hand the panchuque over, making it one deliciously edible package.

They make them in metallic waffle machines, and the panchuques are cheap as hell: About 50 American cents per treat. They're filling and tasty and easy to make and eat. A single panchuque makes a fine lunch.

I'm looking for partners to open up the first Panchuque franchise in Buenos Aires. Let's do this.

Salta: Snippets of randomness

I'm in love with Salta. It was everything I sought from my trip: breathtaking adventures, a close group of drinking partners, a comfortable hostel with a pool, and constant unpredictability. I ended up staying a whole week rather than two or three days, as initially planned. The downside of such an experience is that I wasn't really motivated to write about what I was doing, because I was having too much fun. So, instead, you get this completely random bunch of assorted crapola I jotted down during my stay. My brain goes off on tangents when I'm not keeping an eye on it.

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I thought of a great title for a thesis:

AND BABY MAKES TWO: Changing attitudes on single parenting in America

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Three ways to annoy your tour guide:

1."Fernando?"

"What?"

"No, nothing."

(Repeat during the entire day as needed.)

2. FERNANDO: Within the past few years this type of spider, the Brazilian banana spider, has been sighted in parts of Argentina.

MARIELA: But how did they get here?

FUTBOL: Fucking Mercosur.

3. In the van:

"Wow. Do you have any WORSE music? This is what the driver [a super chill fat guy] listens to while wearing a dress and high heels."

OR

MARIELA: Futbol told me to tell you to turn down your music, because it's terrible.

AND LATER

FUTBOL: Mariela says she wants to sleep and she can't handle your crappy music anymore.

(Repeat during the entire day as needed.)

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I watched two stray dogs fight in the middle of an outdoor restaurant, aluminum chairs clattering, glass dishes and bottles shattering on the sidewalk. A dad lifted his 7-year-old out of harm's way, high in the air. The men, after composing themselves, all grabbed chairs and, like lion tamers, approached the snarling ball of dog, tentatively screaming "hey!" and "no!" When they had safely pinned each dog down, everyone smiled, even the waiter. A toothless homeless man grinned at me, pointing at the scene. I nodded.

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It's hard to accurately portray exactly how much fun Salta was. This was our Saturday night: We went out to a nightclub. The hostel owner came with us and bought champagne and Red Bull for everyone, all night long. Not that we needed it. We were sloshed before we even got there. At 6 a.m. I decided to call it a night. Mariela, a diminutive brunette with swively hips and an unflaggingly positive demeanor, came with me. We stumbled around for two blocks, completely lost, until Mariela saw an ad for Rocklets, the Argentine version of M&M's, and pulled me headfirst into a kiosco. "Sir, I just wanted to tell you that your ad for Rocklets is very effective," slurred Mariela to the kiosco attendant. She bought a package of Rocklets. On the way out, I turned around and the kiosco man rolled his eyes at me, as if to say, "drunk girls, watcha gonna do." We kept walking in what seemed like the generally correct direction (although we were actually a good 30 blocks from the hostel). Mariela decided she needed to go to the bathroom. "Go on the street," I instructed. She pointed at a gas station a block away. "Fine," I sighed. The gas station bathroom was closed. There was a casino next door. We decided to pee in the casino. While we were there, we tried our hand at the slot machines. We won five pesos by pushing random buttons. This paid for our cab ride home. I slept for 15 minutes and had to wake up at 7 a.m. for a day of still-drunk whitewater rafting and ziplining. That, my friends, is the life.

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I left Salta with a knotted stomach and a hint of nostalgia already growing inside me. I was going to miss my Phloxes, my Clevelands, my Janes, my Arthurs. Like the professional paddle ball player from Spain with a nasty case of gastroenteritis. The American college girls from northern Virginia with unlikely Bolivian relatives. Even the socially incompetent moron from France who insisted on talking about things like the potassium content of soda and, whenever he spoke, my brain kept going "AAAASSHOLE! YOU'RE AN AAAASSHOLE!", like that scene in "Just Friends".

This is what I realized: I don't think I can write about serious things. Yet. And by serious, I mean things that are painfully personal. In other words, while I love writing about salami and rock shows, I'm not sure I'm able to communicate intense feelings, at least not to where it won't sound whiny. Proust goes on and on for a hundred pages about the angst he felt waiting for his mother to come up and say goodnight to him when he was a kid. If I can manage a fraction of that, without losing everyone's interest, I'll be satisfied.

High as a kite

The first thing to go was my appetite. I had no desire whatsoever to eat any of the grade-F fried meats that constitute the standard Bolivian diet. Then came a pounding, unrelenting headache, originating at my nape. My spine was stiff and no amount of sleep made it better. Eventually, insomnia set in. My mouth went completely dry and I tried to fight it by guzzling down as much mineral water as I could hold. This was Vital-brand water, "now with 10 times more oxygen." (When I informed my father of this upon my return, he said "that's impossible! How can it have 10 times more oxygen?" and I said, "Easy: instead of H2O, it's H2O10.")

Sharing my dorm room at the Loki Hostel, one of those places designed strictly for party people, were six Aussie gals and one Aussie dude, all of the reckless and self-involved and unpredictable and exactly the sort of people I was looking to binge drink with.

"What's your name?" asked the pack leader, a spiky-haired bulldog of a woman, as I plopped my backpack down on my bunk bed.

"Futbol," I said.

"Futbol, do you know where I can get cocaine here?"

"Uh...I'm not sure," I replied, frazzled. "Maybe I can try to help you find some? I speak Spanish."

"Are you a cop, Futbol?" she asked. "Because that's exactly what a cop would say."

We all sat in awkward silence for a few seconds. Then she announced she was just joking. I, in turn, announced that, from now on, I would refer to her as Cocaine Lady. The rest of the room celebrated the nickname and the situation was defused.

I passed out in bed shortly before happy hour and was awoken soon thereafter by the sound of someone inhaling deeply through the nose. The Australian contingent had decided to return to the room and snort what seemed like a whole bucketful of cocaine. Then the girls got into a dramatic, high-pitched argument over who had witnessed more drug-related tragedies in her lifetime, and by the end I couldn't tell who was snorting and who was sniffling tearfully.

As a reward for my lack of complaining during cocaine hour, I was repeatedly offered to do a line with them. I declined. It didn't seem like the best idea, given the state of my body.

By the next morning, I could no longer walk on the steep streets without hunching over every two blocks, wheezing at the corner. Old ladies carrying enormous bags on their back passed me on the sidewalk. I felt nauseous all day long.

I tried every possible remedy. First water. Then aspirin. Then chewing coca leaves. And finally, I invested in 10 minutes of pure oxygen at the world's highest oxygen bar. I felt like Frank in "Blue Velvet" and was able to inhale all the way in for the first time in days. However, the effect, if any, wore off after half an hour. Those are six dollars I'm never getting back.

After a whole weekend of steady decay, I aborted the Machu Picchu mission and decided to retreat to lower ground. With my last breath, I dragged myself to the La Paz bus station, booked a horrendously tattered bus to the Argentine border, and 34 hours later, I was in Salta, Argentina, at about half of La Paz's altitude. I felt instantly better.