The smell of comfort

Everyone has a smell. That's how it works. You know you're rockin the right smell when you can't smell yourself. If you can, something's up.
I can smell myself, and I am not diggin it.
To my new friends in Argentina: this is not how I smell, please come find me in July after my clothes have been laundered in Diane's laundry room and my hair has been washed with brillian brunette, a shampoo the Argentines apparently aren't feeling in their farmacitys.
After four weeks in Buenos Aires, I still don't fit in. That's ok, I don't think four years here would make my freckles and pale skin blend with the natives. I have, however, come to rely on a few things here that offer a sense of familiarity and comfort in a city as giant and eclectic as Buenos Aires. The first being that the kids from my study abroad program have inflitrated the streets. So, while most of the time I am anonymous, occasionally I'll be surprised with a "hey Mallory" on the street from a fellow study abroad-er. These brief encounters are nice in helping me remember that I'm not the only one struggling to manage all of this change at once.
Aside from gringo encounters in the barrio (neighborhood) I've found many points of familiarity and routine in a run I like to take though the city most days of the week:
2 miles into my run, I can count on seeing a man manuevering his brother in a wheelchair through traffic, asking for money. I know I'm half way when I pass a hamburger and sausage stand that smells like summer bbqs in minnesota(again, the smell....). I know I'm almost done when I pass the museum of fine arts. No run is ever complete without accidentally stepping in dog shit, and having a few close calls with colliding into pigeons.
When I'm finally done, I can't smell myself. My pheromones seem to have taken over the foreign laundry detergent smell, and I'm grateful.