This is the view on the street outside our apartment. I’ve always liked tennis shoes hanging from a power line.
I am flexible with change and blend in with most environments. Before I arrived in Buenos Aires, I had the idealistic notion that no one would recognize me as an American. It’s not as though I walk around with a fanny pack and white tennis shoes. I’ve done a pretty good job with wearing the clothes of a normal Argentinean girl. Skirts and tanks are popular.
One thing I did to my detriment was to get a haircut the second day here. I ended up looking like Amelie, but not as cute. It’s so humid here that my hair frizzes up in a mass of natty curls. I’ve noticed while taking walks that Argentinean women don’t have short hair. As a rule they have wavy long hair that they pull up into loose pony tails or chignons.
Secondly, I am as pale as a ghoul. I haven’t seen the Washington, DC, sun in months, so people may think I’m German or Scandinavian.
I’m wondering if I should embrace my differences or try to assimilate.