Argentina. David, elevators, and breakfast.

On the first day of class in my new school, I was waiting in the lobby next to some comfy leather couches and a coffee station when a man wearing gray sweat pants and a hot pink t-shirt with some colorful cartoon characters walked by and quickly filled his coffee cup.  His hair was black but had been highlighted so the tips were a bright yellow.  He was on a mission and I thought to myself, “Who is this yay-who?  And what in the world is he wearing?”

I waited just a few minutes more before I was assigned to a classroom.  I entered and met my two classmates – Ted and Tess.  Easy enough to remember.  A few minutes later, the same character from the lobby entered and stood at the front of our class.  He pulled out some markers and started writing on the board.  His name is David.  He’s from Venezuela and came to Argentina in 2020.  And I think David is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.  The yay-who wearing goofy clothes was my teacher and would be for the next three weeks.

Every day I would come to class and learn from David.  He would listen to me as I struggled through the words, smiling when I got them correct.  I learned that he just started teaching languages two years ago, and man, this guy was in the right role for him.  I struggled with the most basic sentences and he listened intently, patiently, and softly corrected me when I was wrong.  For all of the language teachers in the world, I commend you.  Saying a basic sentence, such as, “I am at school” would often take minutes, coming out as “I. Uh, am.  Ummmmm.  In.  Schools.” with intense doubt in my voice and an accent that only a language teacher could possibly decipher.  And yet, he smiled when I finally got it correct.

Before jumping into language learning, I would have never thought such a bond could be formed between two people who aren’t speaking but the basics of a language.  And yet, after three weeks of sitting in a classroom everyday with David, I felt a special bond.  I was making some very tiny steps in my journey and I accredit all of that to David.  While we – David, me, and the entire class – were using very basic and broken Spanish, we talked a lot about our lives – our hobbies, our families, and childhoods.  In each story, I learned something new about everyone, and despite the limited words, the stories of each person started to show themselves at the surface.

After three weeks with David as my teacher, I would be heading to Chile and Bolivia so wouldn’t be able to have him as my instructor.  I seriously considered cancelling my trip so I could continue my studies with David.  I’ve asked the school to have him back but he’s working with other students now, and I’m happy that they get to experience the quality of teacher that he is.

I think back to the first time I ‘met’ David as he walked by me in his bright pink t-shirt, on a mission to get some coffee, and I am reminded again to ‘never judge a book by its cover.’

Tony arrived in Buenos Aires early on a Saturday morning.  I was so excited to have him with me on this journey.  For one, he knows the language, and that’s helpful in more ways than one.  But mostly, nomading in Buenos Aires was something we planned together and I couldn’t wait to create memories with him.

I was leaving my first AirBNB for a bigger one closer to my new school.  Tony’s brother was coming a few days after him so we needed more space.  I was up well before the sun rose, excited and wanting to get to the new place and checked in before Tony arrived.  Everything was going just as planned and I managed my bag plus some extra luggage I had taken from Tony in the taxi and into the building of the new AirBNB.  And then….

Well, there was an elevator to the fifth floor where we would be staying.  But…this was not a modern elevator.  This was an elevator designed for one person – maybe two small people – and appeared to be from the 40s.   The sign above it reminded guests that there were stairs and any injuries – or death – from the elevator was solely the responsibility of the passenger.

I obviously had no choice but to get into this ancient elevator, so I ignored all warnings and put them out of my mind.  I put the two bags in and set them on the floor, where they took up over half of the elevator space.  I’m telling you, this elevator was small!  I attempted to roll in but there was simply not enough space for my wheelchair.  I took the bags out.  Still not enough space in the small elevator for a wheelchair.  There was a middle-aged woman with a small dog on a leash trying to help me.  In Spanish.  I could utter nothing more than yes, no, and gracias.  She eventually left and I put the bags back in the elevator.  I sat on the bags and folded the wheelchair up, pulling it in with me. 

There were two manual sliding doors on the elevator.  I closed the outside door as it rattled and slammed hard, and then I pushed the second, interior door closed.  I was finally in the elevator with my wheelchair and all my luggage.  I knew I had hit the number 5 before I sat down on the bags, but why wasn’t I moving?  I peered around the wheelchair to see the buttons, which were on the opposite side of the elevator, to find that nothing was lit up.  At this point, the doors were closed and I couldn’t get them open without getting to the other side of the elevator.  This didn’t seem like a big deal, but my wheelchair was in between me and the other side, and I can’t stand to reach over it.  I was so crammed in the space, and quite literally stuck in a non-moving elevator.

There was no one in sight and I knew I had to get to the buttons.  I stretched my arms and torso as far as I could.  I was just a few inches away from the number 5 when it occurred to me that I might be able to reach if I used my cell phone as extra length.  It worked!  As soon as I tapped the number 5, the elevator took off like a roller coaster, fast and clunky.

I arrived on the 5^th floor where three women were walking out of their apartment.  They slid the doors open for me – thank god! – and stood in awe as I rolled out a wheelchair, got into it, and then drug out two bags of luggage, exasperated and relieved at the same time.  Our apartment was just a few feet away and I unlocked the door with the keypad, dragging the bags in and wondering how the heck I was going to manage the elevator for the next two weeks.

The apartment itself was fantastic with one minor flaw.  The bathroom doorway was too narrow for me to fit my wheelchair through.  I tried a few times, approaching at different angles, with no luck.  I had no idea at the time, but each time I tried I was putting marks on the side of the doorframe.  I eventually moved a plastic chair into the bathroom and transferred to that and then from there to the toilet, but the damage to the doorframe was not well-received by the AirBNB host (understandably so).  When I received a bill for damages I had no idea I was creating, I wanted to cry.  I had already spent two weeks crawling in and out of an elevator, getting on my knees every time, not complaining once.  There is not a single AirBNB in Buenos Aires that meets the standards of ‘accessible’ according to AirBNB.  I had never intended to be harmful to someone else’s property, and without even knowing it, I had created marks with the one thing I can’t give up.  I felt like I was being punished. 

I took a few hours to process the message I received with a bill attached.  I had an opportunity to fight this or to take the high road.  It took a lot of willpower for me to not send a message back full of emotion, telling this host that it wasn’t fair that I had to use a wheelchair, that it was already uncomfortable for me to have to use a chair to get to the toilet, and let’s not even talk about the elevator.  But in the end, I reminded myself that I was living in Buenos Aires.  Perhaps I was already the lucky one.  I crafted a message explaining why there were damages, apologized profusely for not even realizing that I created damage, and paid the bill.  ‘I took the high road’ and it felt good.

Tony’s brother arrived a few days later and we spent our evenings dining at new restaurants, eating and drinking and laughing.  He is much younger and would often frequent the bars after we fell asleep.  The nightlife in Buenos Aires usually begins around 2 am when the bars and clubs open, and goes until the sun rises.  On more than one occasion, Tony was up and working when his brother would come strolling in.  We learned that much of the younger generation goes directly from the bar to work.  In Argentina, everything runs later.  Most restaurants don’t open for dinner until 8 pm, and nothing is open before 9 am, and often 10 am or 11 am is more reasonable.  There aren’t big chain restaurants in Buenos Aires and Tony and I are challenging ourselves to never eat at the same place twice, something that has been incredibly easy – and fun!

About a week after Tony arrived, we got into a big fight.  I said the word ‘breakfast’ in Spanish, which is ‘desayuno.’  He corrected me and told me I was pronouncing it wrong.  I was adamant that I was correct, which made absolutely no sense since he’s spoken Spanish for 40 years and I was three weeks into this journey.  I pouted and stormed off to bed.  I cried into my pillow and told him there was no point.  “Everyone speaks English in this world anyway.  I’ve been all over and have been just fine.  What is the point?”  In the back of my mind, I was thinking how easy it would be to just buy a ticket back to the US and keep on doing what I had been doing, bouncing around and seeing the world the way I had been.  How easy that would be?  I thought of the hundreds of people I’ve met who have left their own countries, going to a strange place, not knowing the language or culture, and for those people, not having a choice to ever return to their ‘home.’  If they can do it, I can do it too.  I refused to give up on this because it was hard.  And from that moment on, I promised myself that I would always give someone who wanted to work on their English a few minutes of my time to listen and speak back, patiently, intently, just like David has done with me.  It’s the best gift some people will receive...and it’s free to give.

Before starting my language immersion, and even still to this day, I had doubts about my age and the ability to learn something so massive.  I’m almost 40 and am not naïve to the fact that learning gets harder as we age.  Ironically, a few days ago, I received a message from someone who entered my life so unexpectedly that reminded me that we are never too old.  I am working on a special project with a wonderful woman in her 70s who is following her dreams and doing something that she had given up on years ago ‘because she was too old.’  Her message reminded me that I, too, can follow new (or old) dreams.  And so, with the help of David, a reminder from this wonderful woman, and a partner who will endlessly correct my words, even if it’s followed by tears, I continue my language learning journey.  It might be hard, just like that damn elevator was, but I am never too old.