esta noche

Tonight at 10:30 pm I decided that dry cereal on the futon was not enough. I hadn’t seen Ben since brunch, so I left him a note (Liz called the Vonage phone at 10:15, and I’m going to dinner on Parana. Nos vemos) and went to dinner by myself. I brought my book for reinforcements. I decided I’d go to Los Maestros, a pizza joint across from Plaza Vicente Lopez, where I went for a quick jog around 8 o’clock. Mom and I had been there in November, and I swear I had the same waitress tonight. She’s beautiful, long black wavy ponytail held in place by a slim headband. Very natural by any standards, especially Argentine, where plastic surgery is de rigueur. So I ordered one slice of pizza Napolitana, and butchered the pronunciation, along with una copa de vino de la casa. The wine was sweet but strong; the pizza normal. I read a chapter of my novel between sips and bites. And upon finishing, heard a voice in English say, “Just a piece of pizza and some water.” Still I find myself fascinated by people who come here and expect to speak only English. Feeling the need to translate, I stare as the Argentines figure out his order. Finally I ask the voice, “Where are you from?”
“Boston,” comes the reply. But not in a Boston accent. He asks if he may sit to join me, I put away my book, and he sits down with his take out order at the table catty-corner from me. He is 30, and a tenured professor of Economics at Harvard. He is originally from Moscow, thus lacking the Hahvahd accent. His name is Omek, or Omec, no se como se escribe. He is on break from school and will spend two weeks here. He summers in Italy, or Chile, or Washington D.C., or New York… I don’t know if I buy it yet, but he is fascinating. He did undergrad in Russia and got his masters and Ph.D. in Minnesota. He spent a year teaching at UCLA. Then came to Harvard. Yale wants him now. I can’t imagine being tenured at age 30.
Once he finishes eating and I pay my bill, he invites me to grab a drink. He promises he is not a serial killer. And since we are so close to my apartment, I believe him, or at least believe that I can escape him if he is. He is staying at the Bel Air, a hotel close to my place. (But not so close as the newest hotel, which Mom should be excited about because it means no more trash left on the street corner of Arenales y Uruguay). He tries to find a bar nearby. I tell him I will go but nowhere fancy because I just got out of the shower – I decided I could pull off the “natural” look, and left the house with damp hair, no make-up and a blue Polo button down with my jeans and Bernardo sandals. We end up at Alamo, which somehow makes me feel safe. And lucky me, girls drink free until 2 am. The waitress hands me a plastic cup full of Quilmes, and Omek buys an 8 peso pilsner glass of the same. We talk for a bit, and he says I have restored his faith in 22 year old American women.
I’ll take that as a compliment.
Now it is 1:00 am and I still haven’t seen my roommate. I’m sure he is okay, but I can’t call him because calling a cell-phone from a landline is like calling long distance. I don’t understand it either.