June 20, 2008 — The week or two leading up to my departure for Argentina, people kept asking about how excited I must be. Of course I always gave the obligatory yes, but my heart wasn’t quite in it.

Everything was scattered. Summer had just begun, and although I was fully aware of my looming departure, I hadn’t come to terms with it.

The giddy excitement and build up hadn’t hit.

The reality began to set in at the airport as I waited by myself at my terminal, occasionally getting up and wandering around to try to find the other student in the program I knew would be on my flight. I was alone, and it was starting to scare me. I was about to spend more than a month in a country where my only previous connections were with 12 or so students I’d met only twice at short meetings. I was about to start a new life — a fleeting one, at least — from scratch.

Sitting on the plane as it flew over Colombia, the significance of my trip started to make sense to me. The fear started to turn into excitement. It was my chance to let my guard down and dive in. Did I even have much of a choice?

June 29, 2008 — It was a chilly, dry evening in Buenos Aires, and the sun was just setting. I was jogging slowly and listlessly alongside the train tracks toward the river, inhaling crisp, rejuvenating air with every breath. The cool, still air and smell of maple leaves aroused a deep nostalgia in me that brought to mind trick-or-treating, little-league soccer and Husky football games; it was like autumn in Seattle. A dog barked as I passed, and an entire chorus of barking from neighborhood dogs began. I rolled my eyes. Every couple nights, I’d wake up to a similar racket. Dogs in the United States, I suppose, aren’t nearly as prone to peer pressure. There was little action around me, and my mind wandered over all the things I’d done in the past week or so. Class was a little dull, but certainly well taught. I’d never been a huge fan of classroom Spanish.

Tomas was tall and lanky, unlike most Argentineans, had a goofy smile that made his front two teeth stick out. Obsessed with American culture, especially movies and TV shows, he was more up-to-date on American pop culture than I was. Tomas was very friendly and helpful, and I was happy to be living with him. He’d probably spoil me by speaking English all the time if I didn’t actively start conversing in Spanish when I could.

San Isidro, just outside Buenos Aires, is like a little European town in some ways. It has many quaint, cobbled and cracked side streets and alleys, and the buildings are artistically aged and often covered in moss. My mind returned to the jog. I was nearing the river. The park next to Rio de la Plata in San Isidro is a common twilight hang-out spot, and since it was a clear, fair day, the place was scattered with locals. Some were beach combing; others were smoking, playing guitar and chatting together. A few practiced skateboard tricks. As I returned home in the quickly darkening night, I smiled. It was only the first week.

july 5, 2008 — As was the Saturday afternoon tradition, 10 Noguer family members and I were crowded around a dining room table in Matilde’s cozy townhouse in San Isidro. Between mouthfuls of thick, sauce-lathered fettuccini pasta and swallows of Quilmes beer, the conversation focused mainly on politics, a favorite Argentinean topic of conversation. Although my Spanish was not nearly advanced enough to fully understand most conversations, I could usually pick up general topics, and I could certainly tell when a light-hearted conversation turned into an argument. On this particular day, juvenile delinquency was the topic, and things got heated quickly as Matilde exchanged blows with her stepson, Marcelo. Just when it looked like things might slow down, Marcelo turned to me and said clearly, in his goofily accented English, “You might as well call your old Argentinean mom ‘Osama Bin Laden.’”

There was an uproar, and the argument was revived; this time everyone was involved. I was told later Marcelo was the rogue liberal of the family and frequently got into the same old arguments with his more conservative stepmother Matilde.

july 10, 2008 — I was sitting in the back of a lively and comfortably decorated bar and restaurant with Tomas, and we were surrounded by tables of locals at least three times my age. Everyone was chatting and occasionally tapping their fingers to live music performed by an eight-piece, New Orleans-style jazz group. The usher approached Tomas and whispered something in his ear. After a short exchange he turned to me and said, “I told them you play and they want you to do a few numbers with them.”

My heart sped up a little. What songs would we play? How would I talk to them? Would I be good enough?

During the break, the trumpet player came over to the table, and with Tomas’ help, we hashed out a quick list of songs. Before I knew it, I was up playing piano with a bunch of 70-year-old Argentineans. I couldn’t hold a decent conversation with any of these guys, but I could certainly play with them.

After the show, I was approached by several listeners. They all wanted to thank and congratulate me in broken English. I was the young, American piano player, later deemed, ‘El Gringo de Seattle’ by Tomas, and I was instantly popular. They invited me back for the next week and put my name in the program as a special guest — I played at Jazz Club Olivos on four different Thursdays.

july 19, 2008 — I couldn’t help feeling out of place as we pulled up to Los Piletones in Tomas’ shiny green Volkswagen. Villa Soldati was a long way from San Isidro, and it certainly felt like a different place. “Only Spanish,” Tomas said. “This is not a good place to speak English. I can explain things later if you don’t understand.”

The dirt roads, heavily pockmarked and muddy, were littered with scraggly stray dogs that looked like they might keel over at any moment. Lining the roads were concrete skeletons clothed in drying laundry and cardboard that often housed several families. We walked into the Piletones building, stopping to wipe our muddy feet on a cardboard scrap at the door, and were immediately introduced to Miriam, our guide for the day. I quickly learned that Piletones was a food bank, day care center, kindergarten and health clinic founded by Margarita Barrientos, a native of Villa Soldati, to help local children and, ultimately, the entire community. It gathered significant local support and funding and was recently expanded to include a new library, outdoor play area, large dining room, kitchen and computer. Piletones is named after the pilings that hold houses off the ground so they aren’t destroyed when the river floods. Instead of providing purely physical support, the organization provides educational and emotional support as well.

july 26, 2008 — I was hunched over a glass of local wine in a dim, smoke-filled lounge surrounded by sharply dressed and flirty twenty-something-year-olds. An electronic version of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” thumped faintly in the background. Broken Spanish phrases and sentences were sliding naturally off my tongue, and Tomas was beaming as he replied in turn. Even above the noise of the bar, I could understand him — at least usually. “You’re a funny guy, you know,” he said. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Come to Seattle some time,” I replied. “You won’t be disappointed. I’ll hook you up with some cute sorority girls. You can sleep on my couch.”

He laughed goofily, showing his teeth, and quoted in English a line from a song that had become a sort of inside joke between us: “It’s a long way to the top, Clarke.”

Reach reporter Clarke Reid at features@dailyuw.com.