Peruvian Food and Photographer's Fear

I've been in Buenos Aires for a little over three weeks now. I kissed my boyfriend for the first time in 4 1/2 months, turned 21, drank lots of wine, went running and got my boyfriend to run with me, accepted a photography job for no pay, turned down an offer to photograph a wedding in Ushuaia for pay, started photographing with my grandfather's 1972 SRT101 Minolta, and have managed to avoid buying a single piece of clothing. I've also only made one portrait of a Peruvian family for a photography project I'm working on.

I see them almost every day because they run the vegetable stand across from my apartment. I've been making a lot of contacts of people to photograph and interview, most of whom are acquaintances of Juanchi, but have been struggling to make them on my own. I don't mind his help in the least bit, but by going through people he knows, I'm strategically avoiding confronting my fear of approaching people I don't know in hopes of photographing or interviewing them about their immigration experience. A clever, but poor decision.

So I did what any bored photojournalist does when they are ready to talk to someone--I got my cameras, notebook, and went a location where I would have to be a leader in the antisocial movement to miss meeting a potential photo subject. When Juanchi and I arrived at the Peruvian restaurant, I hardly had time to visually confirm the nationality of the waiters and observe the art on the mango-colored wall before I noticed three of Juanchi's four housemates sitting in a corner table. We had just arrived from my place and weren't expecting to see them, and joined them for a lovely time during lunch. Two are from Panamá and the other is from Ecuador. Yet I didn't realize quite how globalized our table was until I asked one of the Panameños, Jan, how "broster" chicken was cooked, and he responded with "Kentucky Fried Chicken." Apparently they have those in Panamá. I asked them if they knew what Kentucky means, and they responded with "the owner's last name," then later decided it was a city in the U.S. At least they got a little closer to the right answer. I explained to them that the KFC in Chapel Hill closed because so many people were protesting it. Or at least that's why I think it closed, after seeing protestors out there one month and the building empty the next.

I ordered grilled chicken with rice, steamed potatoes, and a salad.

Juanchi ordered this:

Which to me, was the obvious star for my next picture. But for him, was a stomach ache as we were strolling around China Town in search for peanut butter, a rare commodity in Argentina.

I didn't photograph any people today. But I did make another contact. I will return to the restaurant on Friday to interview and talk with our waiter, Renaldo. I didn't explain much, but said it was for an artistic-historical project on foreigners in Buenos Aires. So for the next three days, I have interviews lined up with a family, a couple, and the waiter. On the fourth day, Argentina plays Nigeria in the World Cup, and I will be rephotographing the Peruvian family. I thought I had successfully photographed them with my grandfather's Minolta last week, but apparently I hadn't even turned on the camera when I thought I was "making frames." Classic mistake of the digital generation.