It’s harder than it looks

At least once everyday I walk the streets of Mbale. Usually this is on my way to a coffee shop or to buy a food in the market. Every time I go out I witness this thing. Something people do it here with relative ease… I don’t think I will ever be good at it





Maybe it is because I didn’t start at an early enough age. Maybe it is because I have some sort of birth deformity or maybe it is just a mere lack of balance. What ever it is, the people (especially women) here are great at it. They can literally walk, talk, and (insert impressive thing here) while doing it. I tried it once… It was a failure.

Post from CU Denver Student Veronica Tuerffs (source: IN THE MIDST OF IT ALL)

A True Oregonian

My boyfriend tells me that I am crazy. No, he isn’t verbally abusive, he is just from Ohio. He only says such a thing when it’s raining. You see in Ohio people stay inside when the heavens open up. Apparently they are all made of sugar and their kryptonite is water. I mean, he is sweet, but come on now; you’re not going to melt. Of the small population of people I know from Ohio, I would say they generally hate the rain.
Here in Uganda, people are smart. When it is raining, they don’t mind too much. They simply put a trash bag over their weaves, hop on a boda and go. Some people even wear rain ponchos. Again, this is when it is raining. On the equator, it also pours.  When this happens it is as if Lake Victoria gets dumped on the country for an entire days time. This is when all mode of transportation stop. Cars are parked and abandoned in the middle of the road; these roads turn into rivers after about twenty minutes. Every awning looks as if a mosh pit is going on beneath it. The unfortunate travelers who get caught in an area with little foot traffic hide beneath a mango tree or huddle in to a small airtime booth. (Picture a newspaper stand with a metal roof; now picture ten people underneath it for hours on end) Ugandans have a very love/hate relationship with the rain. I think this stems from the fact that they are an agri-based culture. People are grateful for the lighter rains because it nourishes their crops, but when it comes to excessive water there is a potential of losing a month’s worth of income.

And then there are those crazies from Oregon. The people who hear rain on their roofs, put some music on, go outside and dance. The citizens of this great American state tend to put on footwear such as Chaos to avoid having wet feet all day. That is, if they put on footwear at all. I know many of these creatures don’t even know what a raincoat is until they are exposed to such a device from an outsider. And umbrellas? What is an umbrella? Due to their love for the lush green environment of the state, be it because you come from a logging family and it helps the timber grow or because you love the organic produce growing in your backyard, Oregonians tend to love the rain. It may not be an outward expression, but it’s always there.
So what happens when you put an Oregonian in a torrential down pour in Uganda when she is trying to experience the rain so she can tells stories to her boyfriend from Ohio about how great this weather condition really is? She drowns… almost.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving and my roommate and I planned to go to “thee” Indian restaurant for our feast of “pizza” and beers. (Yes, that was my dinner. I also had a brownie sundae afterwards. Don’t judge.) We even planned to go early to fulfill that early-dinner-wack-time-thing Americans do on this holiday. So it is five and we are stuck inside due to this rain; the pour. We decided we were super hungry, put our slickers on and went for it. That lasted for about 50 ft; then we were forced to turn around… our clothes were already soaked through. We played mancala to the sound of roaring thunder hoping for a break in the storm. I worked on convincing Miss roomie to leave while we dreamt of stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.

When 6pm rolled around, we finally made a break for it. The rain was the same as before, if not harder, but our early lunch/late breakfast idea drove us out of our guest house. So we start walking down the street and slowly it morphs into wading in a river. We were the soaked spectacle to many people on the street. “Muzungu, you are wet.”  Wow, really. Thank you for that observation. Every Ugandan in this weather had stopped what they were doing and sought out shelter. Megan and I splashed in the water and raced towards our holiday meal. A holiday that most of the population of the country we are in does not know even exists. I am not sure how I would even explain Thanksgiving to them. This adventure would take us about eight minutes on a dry day. It took us about 20. Once we arrived at the restaurant, we were soaked to the bone. Both of us cheers-ed with an American couple, wished them a wonderful, wet Thanksgiving and feasted. And it was good.

ou see, as an Oregonian myself, I figured I could handle this. A little rain never hurt anybody. A Ugandan would have just waited it out until the rain stopped at 10:30 pm and been fine. Someone from Ohio would have been fine because they would have made a feast off of their survival “just-in-case-it-rains” holiday food. I had a warm American meal washed down with some beers in a foreign land on Thanksgiving. I was soaked to my soul and made a great memory. I was not fine. I, the Oregonian who weathered the storm and has a soggy soul, was amazing.
Post from CU Denver Student Veronica Tuerffs
Source: http://veronicatuerffs.tumblr.com/post/13292492870/a-true-oregonian

HIV/AIDS

This is a medical worry that is very present in Uganda. It’s a topic that people think of when I tell them I am studying abroad here. It is something that headlines Google when you search “news in Africa”.

It is also something very private here in the country. People feel ashamed when they test positive and it is not often talked about in daily interaction. Therefore, I have not much interface with the infection.
Until Thursday.

I went to Busia town with my sales partner. We were given free condoms to distribute and I knew exactly who I wanted to give them to. I had traveled to Busia three weeks earlier to talk with some sex workers about their views on Trust condoms and gave them t-shirts. They were the ones that would use them; so we went.

When men go out at night, they not only choose a bar by which drinks are available, but also by which women are offered on the side. They usually buy the girls many drinks, “go behind” to their beds, do the deed and leave. Unfortunately, the women told me that about once a week they have to deal with a man who won’t pay. Some even pull a knife out on them and steal their weekly earnings. Busia is a border town with Kenya and many travelers and truck drivers are looking for company. Therefore, it is labeled as a “high-risk” town.

 

When we arrived at the bar, we simply just walked behind it to their “houses”. They are small stalls in a concrete building. About six women live back there. We were greeted with warm handshakes and big smiles. They all knew we had condoms and were extremely grateful to see us as their supply from the government was running low.

Then I had it: my first run in with HIV/AIDS. 

Last time I was there, the women were making lunch during my interview. They all were very willing to answer my questions and loved that I was willing to come into their living quarters to do so. They said most muzungus fear the place. The woman that was cooking always gave the wisest of answers. She was quiet until the rest of the group looked to her for an answer. I could tell that she was the leader amongst them.

When we all sat down to talk on Thursday, one of the women told us that her friend had died. She pointed to one of the rooms and said that she passed away last week and they found her in the bed. They said she was very weak and that it was “the HIV’ that did it. I am sure that another sickness was main the contributing factor, but her being positive made things much worse.

They showed me her picture. Right then my heart sank. It was the women I had met three weeks earlier. Her name was Frida and she was only 22 years old. She was my age. She was living her life as a leader to those around her in a community that needs strong-willed women. I couldn’t believe how close to home HIV/AIDS had just become. I was overwhelmed. This was a human, an equal to me, someone I had become acquaintances with. She died. She died from something that could have been controlled.

I talked with the women about it more. They all had tears in their eyes and said that they had known she was positive. I asked them how often they get tested. All four of them said that they never had. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I wanted to scream at them “your friend just died from this, if you’re positive you can get free treatment. It doesn’t need to be the end.”

Instead, I asked them “why not”? They told me that once you know you are positive, that’s it. You know you are destined to a life short-lived. Two of them said that this would cause them to live out the rest of their lives. When I asked them what that meant, they said that they would just drink and party all the time. They said they would do this since “nothing could change their status”. I wanted so badly to tell them about how so many people that have HIV live a long, healthy life with the resources available to them. My heart was breaking.

I was about to cry and looked up, a women that was there with her two year old son told me that she felt the same way. She said that right now she works at the bar because her husband died a year ago and it is the only way to have her daughter in school and to feed her two children. She said that if she knew she was positive she would just leave her children and “go live”.  She said she will never get tested and that she would rather fall deathly ill and find out she was positive that way than feel as though she has nothing to live for and abandon her children.

As we were leaving I wished all of the ladies well and told them that I hope they get tested. I looked right into their eyes and told them that it would help them to know their status. They smiled and shook their heads. It was as if I could read their minds from the expression on their faces. “Silly muzungu. She thinks she understands our lifestyle. She thinks she can come in and tell us what is good for us.”

Thing is, I wish they could have read mine: “You women are beautiful and have so much potential. I love you and want you to be able to work your way out of this chapter of your life in a healthy manner. I don’t understand your choices, but I want to learn more and converse with you for hours on end.”

Post from CU Denver Student Veronica Tuerffs
Source: http://veronicatuerffs.tumblr.com/post/13107997500/hiv-aids

Purple Bows, White Flags and Ribbons

It was 8:30am when the five of us loaded into the motorcar. The fog was out on this morning and the sun was hiding. The ride was something of an hour. We let time pass with nervous chatter; none of us knew where exactly we were going.
When we arrived at the first church we all eagerly walked in. We wanted to bear witness. We wanted to be educated on Rwanda’s past. In fact, this was why we were visiting the country.

 

The memorial guide explained that the people in the village of the Tutsi decent fled to the church. They sought out sanctuary in their God and in their community that was gathering there. The building looked in tact from the outside… then we ventured in.
The benches for the congregation were covered in piles clothing. It was the clothes that 10,008 people were wearing then they came to the church. They were not preserved in anyway, just piled in rows as to show the vast numbers that were in the 5 acre area.
When we turned around, we could see the area in front of the door where the Hutu’s had detonated grenades in order to make way into the building. The original gates were still there; mangled and rusted. As we walked towards the alter I turned around. I felt as though I could feel the fear that was in the eyes of those we had huddled in the back corner.

As the Hutu’s entered, they shot the building to pieces. Suddenly, the bullet holes in the walls were much more noticeable. The sunlight that felt warm against my skin while I was inside was there due to dark hatred. Someone had climbed to the top of the church and lit dynamite to collapse part of the ceiling. I then had chills.

We could see blood stains that remained on the cloth on the alter, and against the walls. There was one large crimson area that we were led to. This was the place where the children were hiding. Weapons were valuable that February in 1994; people were told that brick walls worked as extermination tool for the future generation. They lined the children up so that they could watch what would soon be their fate. The gruesome images that they last endured were flooding my mind. I moved over and turned my head while the guide kept explaining. Then she told us that where I was standing is where they piled the bodies. I walked outside.

This was to no prevail. We then went down into a mass grave. The first was to show us different ways that people were killed. This was done by looking at different skull fractures. They were grouped into categories: machete, grenade, hippo-hide hammer, spears, sticks, walls, stones, and gun fire. There was one woman who had been killed through sexual assault. They then placed her child back in her arms and pierced them together with a spear. They had a special casket for them. Their bodies remain intact.
We came up for about three breaths of fresh air. Then we descended into the depths again. This time, it was one of two holes in the ground holding a total of 45,276 people’s remains. I had one look and turned around and walk back up the stairs. I was greeted by purple bows, white flags, and ribbons blowing in the breeze. They were the small comfort I had to hold onto while I waited for the others to return.

Then we went to another church. The facts were the same and the statistics were just as astounding. I was just as shocked to hear the figures again. Desensitization was the last thing I was feeling.

 

We then drove to the Kigali Genocide Memorial. On the way, I found myself searching for traces of conflict; buildings dismantled and such. But I didn’t see this. Instead I noticed that the roads were smoother than in Kampala and that the rolling hills of Rwanda were beautiful. I also noticed that the people of the country had not forgotten the events of genocide, but were working to move past it. I noticed that the government had worked hard to repair infrastructure and even harder to portray a wonderful image of itself to the East African community.

I also felt shame. Shame for searching for conflict while others were trying to keep it in the back of their minds. It also made me feel like our news reports in America capture nothing. Yes, I was impacted when I have watched past reports of the genocide. But I believe that in every conflict and natural disaster, we are hearing numbers and statistics. Not seeing gruesome images and hearing family’s stories. These testimonies need to be made more available to the international public. They also need more follow-up. Americans need to be reminded of travesty; or else we will put these things in the back of our minds. But unlike the Rwandans, we will have nothing to cause us to recall the horrific events.

The memorial was something that I am blessed to be a witness of. The stories, footage, and photos were the raw information that the world needs. They also had an exhibit for the other genocides around the world. I admit that these are something that I myself don’t allow myself to recall often enough.

The amount of lives that were taken from this earth during that month made me question something that I never thought I would.

That belief was this: people are innately good. Is that true? Those who took part in the slaughtering were neighbors with one another. They were friends and even relatives. How could one line over a radio trigger such a physiological change in these people’s beings?

“…we must cut the tall trees.”

As I have now had time to process these thoughts, I realize that I still believe that people are good. I believe that evil is some that swells in the belly of a beast who rejects the good in his/her life and ignores the beauty that shines through the world daily. When these people obtain power, they have the ability to use propaganda and buzz media to close the eyes of others as well. Also, I believe that in the end, the good people that stand for their beliefs is a much more powerful statement than any radio broadcast or poster could ever make.
 
Post from CU Denver Student Veronica Tuerffs
Source: http://veronicatuerffs.tumblr.com/post/10686986117/purple-bows-white-flags-and-ribons

Adopted at the Grocery Store

I learned a very important lesson today.  No matter how small the errand is, I should never leave home without a book mark.  For those of you who don’t know, my mom taught me how to make book marks by hand out of little glass beads.  So when I decided to go to China, I set about making as many of them as I could to give to people as presents.  My American friends helped me by eating altoids.  Since the beads are glass, they are breakable, so I wanted to put them into altoid tins to protect them.  Then my I commissioned my good friend Anja to paint the tins so that they would be pretty.  I have about 20 of them, and I brought the beads to make more.

Today I decided I needed to go to the Merry Mart.  The Merry Mart is the largest store near campus.  Its very close, across the street from the northern gate of campus.  There is even a bridge so pedestrians can cross the busy street without worrying about traffic.  Trust me, that’s something to be worried about in Beijing.  So I had a list, in my head of everything I needed, shampoo, conditioner, a blanket (so that when nights start getting cold I’ll still be able to sleep), an umbrella, yogurt, juice, instant noodles, jello, a pair of scissors and a pair of slippers.  The shoes are to wear in my room.  I am slowly understanding why people here think the ground is dirty.  That’s cause the ground is dirty.  I’ve noticed I track in a fair amount of dirt when I walk into my dorm room.  I’m not the only one with this problem, one of the ICB professors, named Enoch, leaves his shoes out in the hallway so that he doesn’t track dirt into the room.  I had started taking my shoes off, but then if there is any dirt in my room, it gets in my bed when I go to bed.  So….I decided to buy some slip on shoes so that when I am in my room I can not only keep my feet clean, but keep the floor clean.  These shoes aren’t leaving the room.

I have been to the Merry Mart a few times now, but this was my first time alone.  I sorta learned the layout of the place, and I brought along my visual dictionary, cause I wasn’t certain I would be able to figure out the shampoo and conditioner (I never found the conditioner, but I got the shampoo which is more important to me), without it.  I also emptied out my back pack so that I could put most the groceries in it for the walk back, and headed out.

When I was looking for the blanket, I must have looked very lost. I was in the correct section, scanning the shelves seeing if I could find them, and a sales lady came up and asked (in Chinese) if she could help me find what I was looking for.  So…I have 3 cats, and one of them is named Tanzerin, which is German and means dancer (this is relevant to the story I promise).  So Tanzerin sounds like 毯子人 (tanziren), and the first two characters tanzi mean blanket.  I would never have remembered that word (cause it was in the supplemental vocabulary), except it reminded me of my kitty.  So I told her what I was looking for, and although I used the wrong tone (she corrected me), she understood.  She asked me what size I was looking for, and what color.  She showed me where they were, and climbed up the most unstable looking ladder I have ever seen (I told her 小心/Be careful!), to find a purple blanket for me.  I went to hold the ladder for her, and she thought I was going to try to climb it, and told me that she would climb it.  It was held together with wire.  I really appreciated her help, and it was really cool cause I understood everything that she said, and I’m pretty sure she understood everything I said.  Happy day.

So the rest of shopping was pretty uneventful, I got just about everything I was looking for and I go through check out.  So the cashier asked me if I had a card.  I thought he was asking me if I was paying with a credit card, so I responded no.  And that’s when I was adopted by a Chinese grandma.  As I’m packing my backpack up with the stuff that the cashier had already scanned, this cute old lady comes up to me and hands me a card with Merry Mart written on it in Chinese.  So I handed it to the cashier.  I’m not sure exactly what it did.  I looked at the receipt and I don’t see anything pertaining to a card on it.  The cashier scanned it and handed it back to the old lady.  Maybe it made my bill cheaper, maybe it just gave her credit for my purchases (cause I paid in cash, it wasn’t a credit card).  When I asked the guy for a bag (cause my backpack was full) the lady repeated me, louder and with the correct tones, and made sure I got my bag.  Then she escorted me out of the store (picking up two merry mart ads, one for herself one for me), and pushed my cart for me.  She argued with two of the Merry Mart clerks when we got to the parking lot, because she wanted me to be able to take the cart out of the lot.  She kept saying my bags were too heavy.  I kept trying to explain that there was no need for her to worry, that although I didn’t have a car, I lived close, on the campus across the street.  She showed me where the bus station was, and I finally got through to her that I could walk back without any problems.  She pulled down the sleeves on my hoodie because it was cold outside, and I thanked her for her help.

This is where I get to the sad part of the story.  When I was leaving my room this morning, I had considered grabbing a couple of the tins on my way out.  But I assumed that it would just be a quick stop to the store, and I would not get lost, nor need any help, so I didn’t grab any.  The situation I encountered I had never considered.  Imagine at King Soopers, a little old lady helping a young Chinese girl go through the check out line.  I am pretty sure that wouldn’t happen.  Most people wouldn’t help a random foreigner out like that.  Also it felt very weird that this old woman was pushing my cart around for me.  I had the fight the part of my brain that was screaming hey you’re the young kid, help the lady out.  So now I know, no matter how small the errand is, I am always going to have a bookmark on me. 

 

 

Post from CU Denver student Kelsey Evans

Source: Pink Hair in Beijing

My favorite things of Argentina

After one year in Argentina, it is time to reflect. These are a few of my favorite things:


Best Pizza: Fugazzeta

Possibly my favorite thing in this world, I had a little bit of a fugazzeta addiction while in Argentina.

Dough. Mozzarella. Olive oil. Sauteed onions.
Sooooooo delicious, easily the tastiest thing I had never tried when I arrived in Argentina. And there was one pizza place that had the best of the best...

Best Pizza Restaurant (overall): El Cuartito

El Cuartito, Talcahuano 937

The best pizzería, built in 1934. Their fugazetta was the best I encountered, although a little more expensive than other places, it was worth every peso.

Look at how wonderful this slice looks.

Best Pizza (quick/cheap): El Güerrin

Corrientes 1368

Another old pizzeria. It may not be as amazing as El Cuartito, but its pizza is still delicious at a great price ($1.25 USD for a slice of mozzarella). I frequented this location many times with two of my good American friends, Jason and Chris. For a cheaper and quicker option, you could stand and eat the pizza at the counter.
My usual order here: two slices of cheese pizza, one piece of fainá, and a sifón de soda (carbonated water).
http://www.pizzeria-guerrin.com.ar/

Best Empanadas: Chez Juanito
This little restaurant has a nice chill vibe, and their empanadas are delicious! My favorite: Espinca a la crema (Cream and spinach).

José Antonio Cabrera 5083

Best Panadería: Chantilly
There must be thousands of bakeries in Buenos Aires, but this one is my favorite for its good prices, cool staff, and delicious cheese and onion empanadas. I have probably had about 200 empanadas from this place. Mostly because of its convenient location two blocks from the university.

Best Vegetarian Restaurant (traditional): Artemisia

Delicious!

http://www.artemisianatural.com.ar/
Delicious variety of fresh, healthy, natural vegetarian food. I only went there three times but I wish I went more. 


Best Vegetarian Restaurant (all-you-can-eat/Chinese): Spring Restaurante
Oooooooooh you so delicious!! This "tenedor libre" restaurant is full of so many varieties of meatless or fake meat dishes... I hardly know what to do when I get inside.
Oh wait, yes I do. Eat plates and plates of the fried, saucey fake-meat and loads of other veggies.
http://www.springrestaurante.com.ar/


Best Café: Café Tortoni

Enjoying a cafe con leche.

Although this café, founded in 1858, is a bit of a tourist trap, I thought they had the best coffee of all that I tried (except for Starbucks... haha). Great coffee, delicious dessert, beautiful building, and its located next to the Tango Museum.


Best Soda: Paso de Los Toros Light

Paso de Los Toros, which means "the passing of the bulls", demands that you trample thirst. This grapefruit flavored 'gaseosa' was an integral part of my Argentine diet. Oh, and Light means no calories. (Diet Coke is called Coca-Cola Light in most parts of the world, including Argentina).

Best Alfajor: Milka Mousse 3x

After many a tested alfajor (two cookies with something sweet, usually dulce de leche or chocolate, between the two), I've decided that my absolute favorite, even more than the fancier brands, is Milka's Mousse 3x. 


Best Ice Cream: Chungo
Others might choose the classy and more expensive Persicco as their favorite "heladería", while others may prefer the ever ubiquitous Freddo. I thought Chungo had the best helado. In general, I'm not a big fan of ice cream. But Argentine ice cream is so creamy and rich that I had a hard time turning it down.

http://www.chungo.com/

Best Colectivo: the 140

So glorious, colectivo 140! Thank you for being there for me through thick and thin, day and night.
The 140 stands above all the rest for numerous reasons. Its air-conditioning made the heat during the summer bearable. It is quite spacious, has many seats, and is newer in design with all 140s looking the same. It floors are "super bajo". It has a convenient stop two blocks from my house. It mostly runs down or one street over from Córdoba, making its path easy to remember and navigate. And with running down Córdoba, it has taken me to many of the places I've needed to go. 
Lo mejor!

Best Gesture: the one Argentines use when cheering for their team/country/whatever
Although Argentines use many interesting gestures not seen in the States, I would say the throw your arm repeatedly in unison is the best.

Best Americans to being studying abroad with you for one year: Chris and Jason

Jason: green jacket. Chris: William & Mary shirt.
I couldn't have been more fortunate having these two guys stick around with me for the entire year in Buenos Aires. Not only are they great guys, but they were serious about learning Spanish. Their Spanish was always at a higher level than mine, so I got to leech off of them. Stupid Chris spoke so well that Argentines would often go on and on complimenting him and then talk about how terrible mine was. Stupid, stupid Chris.
Favorite moment: All-you-can-eat buffet in Rosario where we ate a silly amount of food

Best Argentine to have as your first Spanish teacher: Emiliano

Emi!! My teacher for Beginner's Spanish in Fall 2009 at the University of Colorado Denver, he inspired me to come down to study in Argentina. Well, it was either him, or the fear that I would try to learn Spanish in a classroom full of Americans who had no desire to really try to learn the language (most were there because it is a requirement).
Either way, Emi made me learn a lot very quickly in that first class, and he moved back to Argentina shortly after. We got to hang out a bit down there, and he even showed me and some friends around his home city of Mar del Plata. Te quiero, amigo!
Favorite moment: Walking with Emi through Mar del Plata wearing my ridiculous American flag swimsuit. Poor guy...

Best Argentine to have pick you up at the airport after having gone tango dancing all night: Christian

My first program director, Christian, looked like a complete mess when he greeted me at the airport in Buenos Aires. It was 6:30AM I think, and he had been tango dancing all night. Although he was constantly tired from having to deal with every little problem us Americans had, he still managed to introduce us to a lot of cool music around the city... and make fun of my terrible Spanish accent.  Gracias, abuelo!
Favorite moment: Walking down the street with Christian while the other Americans continually question everything (When are we gonna eat? How far are we?)

Best Argentine to take care of you for a year (program director): Raul

Raul, his daughter Sol, and I at a football match between River Plate and San Lorenzo.

Anyone lucky enough to meet Raul struggles to find the words to describe how great of a guy he is. Extremely knowledgeable and passionate about his country, he taught us a great deal of Argentina. Being away from our country for so long, he made us feel like we were part of his family. Maybe the only thing better than Raul is his amazing wife and children. Thank you for everything!!
Favorite moments: being with him and his family on New Years Eve and "destroy the cheese." 

Best Hostmom: Elina!!

Elina and I at the San Telmo fair

Save the best for last: Elina. Where do I begin with how lucky I was to have her as a hostmom? Her beautiful home is located in an awesome neighborhood: Palermo Soho. My favorite part of her house was her beautiful garden out back.
How about the amazing food? Never again will I eat that well. Amazing, delicious, vegetarian food. Argentine, Arabic, Italian, Mexican food... and many times just her own creations. My favorite though was her Mexican food (she lived there for 9 years).
She was a great resource for me to understand a little of what was going on in Argentina and the quilombo that is their politics (she's a professor and wrote a book on the last president, Nestor Kirchner).
Easily, though, when I think of Argentina I will think of Elina. Always very concerned and involved in my life, and invited me to spend Christmas with her and her family. Mostly though, Elina was an inspiration to me. With all that she accomplished as a professor, an artist, and an amazing cook, she made me feel thoroughly lazy with all she can do in a day, but also motivated to do more myself. Te quiero, Elina! Gracias por todo

Post from CU Denver student Daniel Smafield
Source: http://smafield.blogspot.com/2011/07/my-favorite-things-of-argentina.html