For the longest time, I thought that Thanksgiving was a day for food and family. Don’t get me wrong, it is. I can remember getting up early to watch the Macy’s Day parade on TV, or even sleeping in so late that the sounds of my mother cooking and the noise of the game woke me up. As I got older, Thanksgiving meant starving yourself all morning while peeling pound upon pound of spuds. My family is mostly Irish, so Thanksgiving is the perfect time to consume ridiculous amounts of our national food: potatoes. We were always in charge of the mashed potatoes, and all four of us, my dad, mom, sister and I would sit in front of the TV, peeling potatoes, and watch either the game or old Christmas movies, depending on who won the battle for the programming that day.
Later, after we were properly primped and spruced up, and after our entire house was full of the smell of steamy potatoes and chocolate pie, we headed out to the family’s place. There were two options usually: the mostly vegetarian feast with my mother’s family, or the combination of half Italian half traditional genius that makes up the unique experience with my semi-Catholic father’s side. Either way we went, the main part of the experience was to eat more than you could possibly imagine, and then sit around and laugh off the calories by telling family stories and finish off the evening with turkey sandwiches and sing-alongs.
But the past 5 years, being unable to go home for Thanksgiving has given me a new perspective on the holiday: it’s not so much about having to be with family as making those around you a part of your new family. It’s not so much about only eating your favorite recipes as it is eating and communing with others. It’s not even about the traditions you’ve been a part of for your entire life. The original thanksgiving wasn’t about tradition; in fact it was a totally new experience for everyone involved. It was about sharing food with people of a different color, who wore different clothes, ate different foods, and spoke a different language. And as I sit here in Argentina in absurdly hot humid weather and consider taking yet another shower, I suppose that this is, ironically, more like the original Thanksgiving than any I have ever experienced. This is our chance to come together with others, and be thankful for what we have, for life. Our chance to eat some things we might not usually eat. Our chance to encounter a new country, a new language. Count our blessings. In my short time considering the many reasons I have to be thankful, I can’t even begin to comprehend the total. There are a lot. Each of you has been a blessing to me in the short time I’ve known you. I’m so happy to be sharing this time with you. Happy Thanksgiving all, and welcome to a new kind of feast, a new kind of family, and a new kind of holiday.
Marjorie Anne Ellenwood
This is in the middle of the first town square in Buenos Aires. The famous date above is the day that Buenos Aires expelled their Viceroy thus declaring their revolution. 
This is La Casa Rosa (The Pink House) which would be like our White House.
This is El Cabildo in the main town square. It was the first government building in Buenos Aires.
La Boca. Tango's really big here. They play tango music in the streets all day long.
Torre de los Ingleses (English Tower). This monument has an interesting story behind it. It was constructed by British residents in Buenos Aires to commemorate their May revolution. 172 years later the Falklands War happened between Argentina and Britain. To make a long story short, Argentina was beaten pretty badly. A monument was soon constructed to commemorate the loss of Argentinean life. Ironically, it was constructed directly across from the English tower on the other side of the street (nobody knows why). Now residents look at the tower with a bit of contempt, especially now that it seems to loom over their monument in a mocking manner. The "eternal flame" can be seen in the foreground of the tower in the photo above. To this day the Argentinean constitution still claims the Falkland Islands as their own even though the British occupy them. A bit of advice: never bring up this subject at the Argentinean dinnertable.
And here is Ferdinand.