Lost in Translation (and Loving It): My Life as a Brazilian in Argentina
Betraying my Brazilian bloodline, I went and married the arch enemy — an Argentine. (Let’s be real, the rivalry runs deep. We have Pelé; they swear by Maradona. We have churrasco; they claim asado reigns supreme. And don’t even get me started on doce de leite vs. dulce de leche — same (delicious) thing, different saga.) Now, I find myself visiting Argentina often, holidays and all, navigating life on the other side of the border.
Sure, I’ve developed a Castellano accent that occasionally earns a nod of approval from porteños (Buenos Aires locals, for the uninitiated). But no matter how many times I visit, Argentina always has a new lesson in store — usually delivered with a healthy dose of humor.
Seriously, though. I thought, How different can it be? We’re neighbors — similar languages, a shared love for good food, and a knack for dancing through life’s chaos. But the differences? They don’t just whisper; they scream — usually right after I’ve made a fool of myself.
Take language blunders. Everyone knows the classic trap: embarazada doesn’t mean embarrassed — it means pregnant. Got it. A rookie mistake I’ve proudly avoided. But nothing prepared me for the day I heard a friend had been defenestrado after a heated speech. My law-trained brain went full crime scene: shattered windows, mob justice, and some very unfortunate gravity. Turns out, in Argentina, defenestrado is just slang for being canceled online. Dramatic? Absolutely.
And then there’s the time I accidentally turned a casual dinner conversation into comedy gold. Out with my husband and a few of his friends, I asked if they, too, get blackheads in weird places, like the codo (elbow). My husband immediately shot me a look — equal parts confusion and por favor, no — but before I could explain myself, one friend chimed in: “Yes, especially if you work out a lot and wear tights.” Tights? Who’s out here wearing tights over their elbows?
That’s when I realized: the perfect accent I thought I’d mastered had betrayed me. Instead of asking about blackheads on elbows (codo), they thought I’d asked about pimples on their culo (yes, the backside… the rear… the, well, you know). Let’s just say the conversation took an interesting turn.
And then there are quirks you never see coming. One day, during a road trip, I spotted a man at a gas station who’d “forgotten” his water bottle on top of his car. I wanted to be a good Samaritan and point it out, but let’s just say I got distracted. Then it happened again. And again. Bottle after bottle perched on cars at every gas station stop we made toward the Andes. Surely, this epidemic of forgetfulness couldn’t be real.
When I finally asked my husband, he laughed and explained: it’s not forgetfulness — it’s marketing. Apparently, leaving a bottle on your car roof is the unofficial sign it’s for sale. Who needs Craigslist when you’ve got plastic bottles?
Every visit teaches me something new about this wonderfully chaotic place — where life feels both familiar and full of surprises. So here’s to the holidays, lessons learned, and navigating Argentina one defenestration (and culo mix-up) at a time. Who knows? On my next trip, I might just invent a whole new misunderstanding.
Stay tuned!
