overseas briefing Get out a pen and notepad, American boys

Author: Dina Magaril

BUENOS AIRES - In the past 24 hours I have been told that I have wonderful breasts by a man with two children, applauded while walking to the supermarket and followed by a car filled with horny drunk men who didn't look a day over 50. Though the applause was uncalled for (my breasts, though, are not too shabby), living in Buenos Aires has done wonders for my ego. In fact, it will do wonders for any woman's ego. At Middlebury, we are used to being pursued drunkenly on a Saturday night if we are lucky but rarely given compliments on a day-to-day basis. College boys do not holler, whistle, snap, cackle or hiss at girls when they walk up College Hill. They do not even do these things at a McCullough late night dance party.

"Es la cultura aca, che," explains an Argentine friend. Women are both objects of praise and objectified. Argentines love their mothers but will have no problem yelling a piropo (or catcall) at a woman their mother's age.

"Women like this, no?" an Argentine man in his 20s asks me.

"American women do not like this," I tell him.

"But, if these woman dress nice with their chests out, then it is so we tell them they are sexy, no?"

I considered this. When we decide to take off our sweatpants and ratty Middlebury lacrosse t-shirts in exchange for a strapless dress and mascara surely it is because we want to be noticed for our femininity. So perhaps Argentine men have it right. But I wonder, could the Argentine mentality ever really work at Middlebury? What would we do if the guy at MiddXpress told us we are very bonita every time we went in for a Red Bull?

Unlike the huge metropolis that is Buenos Aires, Middlebury is a small, enclosed campus. Throwing around compliments to every pretty girl that walks by will surely have its consequences. Either she'll think you're some creepy jerk, or who knows, you might even score a date, though most probably it will be the former. And while in Buenos Aires piropos can be heard on the street, it is highly unlikely that such catcalls will be responded to. Regardless, the more I've lived here the more I've gotten used to this custom and the more I have found myself not minding it so much.

The other day, returning from the gym sweaty and reeking, I went into VOLTA to buy some Tramontana ice cream (vanilla with dulce de leche and little chocolate balls - you've got to try it).

"We have been wondering for a while where you're from," says the guy scooping my ice cream. I am slightly embarrassed that the ice cream guys talk about me, I must be in there way too much.

"Los Estados Unidos," I tell them.

"You are very beautiful," he says.

I am covered in sweat and have not washed my hair for two days.

As he hands me a cone five times bigger than the one I ordered I smile and say thank you. Not only can I use my newfound femininity to get upgrades on my ice cream but it's actually refreshing to be praised for something as simple as being a woman. Now if only Middlebury guys would take note.