White Pants

True story: I own white pants. Now, not many people would actually buy white pants. You have to know how to rock the white pants if you own them; you need to be a fashion maven. You need to be suave. You need to be cool. You need to be sexy.

I, unfortunately, am none of those things. I bought the white pants from Gap this summer when they were on sale for $18.00 and I was in a particularly Goddamnit-I'll-wear-white-pants-if-I-wanna mood. In the U.S. I wore my white pants only for the the purpose of taking extremely amusing photos (RE: "A Classy Evening" and "End of June" albums on Facebook).

I brought the white pants to Argentina not exactly sure when I would wear them, if at all. But, as I said, I like the idea of just having white pants.

ANYWAY, this last Sunday was la Fiesta de la Primavera (Spring Festival) also known as El Dia de los Estudiantes (Student's Day...if September 21 is a weekday the kids have school off. And that's nonfiction). Saturday night (and by "Saturday Night" I mean "Sunday Morning") is spent at the biggest boliche in the area...Menfis. "You're going to love it," the Argentines told me. Talk of the boliche felt like the opening scene of Cabaret:

"In there, life is beautiful. The girls are beautiful. Even the orchestra is beautiful!"

So I was pretty excited for this extravaganza and I wanted to wear something special for the occassion.

I dug through my dresser and stumbled upon the white pants. I stopped. I examined. Hmmmm. I'd never wear white pants seriously in the U.S.A, but...can I pull it off here? Can I pretend to be fashionable, suave, cool and sexy?

Ya damn straight I can.

I got a little carried away and decided that I would also wear a white polo (with blue stripes). AND my carpincho alpargatas. I looked in the mirror and decided I looked sufficiently ridiculous. Perfect.

My response to any doubters? I had a few.

Most basic: Um...I'm from Manhattan. This is what the SoHo hipsters are wearing...God, do you know ANYTHING?

More elaborate: My mom is Heidi Klum.

I pondered at one point in the evening trying to enter the VIP lounge by telling them that I'm Brandon Davis, Paris Hilton's ex-boyfriend. I think C-List celebrities deserve VIP status in rural Argentina.

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) I never had to use any of these lies. No one questioned my appearance. Maybe they just assume the Yankee knows what he's doing. If this is the case, they are sorely mistaken.

Anyway, the dancing was very fun at the beginnning. The music wasn't too loud and the boliche not too crowded. I found what seemed to be almost everyone I'd met in San Vicente over my month here. They all invited me to join them. Good times aplenty.

Things change. The music got louder and louder and the dance floor became so crowded that I felt I couldn't move. Once the cigarettes were lit and the smoke hovered just above my head I decided it was time to leave the dance floor.

So I stayed far away from the speakers for the rest of the evening which ended, by the way, around 7:30. The Argentines spend too much time on everything. I like quick, efficient. Do your work and get it done. Have your fun, but do it quickly. I see no reason to languish in the boliche for over five hours. Three is more than enough. One friend later told me that alcohol helps pass the time. I find this mentality to be extremely warped...let's drink more in order to dance more, they say...why not drink less, dance less, and sleep more?

ANYWAY, even though the boliche was indeed as nice as they said, it's still not my scene. A boliche is a boliche; the particular size and scene are insignificant. I think my boliche days may be over; in truth, I prefer being a hermit than a partier.

Sunday, as I mentioned, was Dia de la Primavera. The Argentines spent this year's DDLP at a place called Girabaldi, roasting sausages and hamburgers, getting wasted, and dancing to reggaeton and cumbia. We went to bed at 8 and woke up at 10. We arrived at Girabaldi around 11:30 and left around 5:30. Again...why is so much time needed? Seriously...six hours to eat, drink and dance? That's longer than their school day.

I was completely exhausted at the fiesta and kind of hating myself for thinking it would be an interesting cultural activity in which to participate. I'm pretty sure I already got the "cultural" part down: the Argentines like to party.

I did, however, run into some progressive, politically-active Argentines who were fun to talk to. One of them told me that she hated my country...but she likes the people. She wanted to know all about Judaism, and she already knew an impressive amount. She told me about the censorship of the Peronist government and the lack of women's rights. They told me sadly that Argentinean law permits abortions only for mentally disabled women who have been raped. It's times like these that I'm proud to be an American (and pretend that Sarah Palin doesn't exist).

When I returned to San Vicente around 7:00, all I wanted to do was go to sleep. The whole Colombero family, however, was out at the Fiesta Nacional de los Cosechadores (National Festival of the Farmers). This giant exposition draws around 50,000 people a year. It's like a big county fair, with concerts, food, craft sales, etc. The main event is, of course, the tractors and livestock on display.

I joined the Colombero family there and came back to the house a few hours later. I planned on going to bed around 10:00. I turned on the television just to zone out a bit, but quickly discovered Scoop on Cinemax.

I fell asleep at 1. Damn you, Woody Allen.