I had coffee with Carlos today. For only an hour, short by Argentine standards. He’s nice. But I’m not interested in a pudgy, balding, short 40-something Argentine man. Good to talk to, patient. But when he asked me to come over and watch some movies he filmed I declined. It’s nice to be able to pretend I don’t understand and fake some other plans. But now I feel like I can’t leave the house for a while. He wanted to know if I had another amiga that could go to dinner with his friend Luis. A double date, perhaps? I spared Jenny and told him the only girl I knew here was my cousin and she has a boyfriend. Lo siento. He’s nice. Just not my type. And honestly I get a little creeped out by how he stares into my eyes.
So because of the holiday, there is no work and no school. Which means after office was moved to last night. I didn’t go out to dinner because Jenny, Annemarie and I went to lunch at Maria Felix, a Mexican food place in Palermo. I added an entire bowl of jalapenos to my tortilla soup. I felt like I was back home with all of the Mexican flags.
Annemarie, Meg & Jenny at Maria Felix
Rain in Palermo
So last night, Ben and I met up with Annemarie and Jenny at Museum, but it didn’t open until midnight. So we waited for Damian and his boys (Gabby, Fernando) and went to Opera Town. It’s like a mini version of Museum. Wasn’t very crowded. We got there at 10:04 and they still charged us cover. $20 pesos. It included a drink, so it wasn’t a bad deal. But Ben decides to head home and do some entrepreneurial research. The rest of us continue on. Jenny and I made a lap. This guy grabbed my arm, and then looked at me like he didn’t mean to, like he had though I was someone else. Someone he knew. But then he grabs me again, “Marry me!” he blurts out. “¿Que?” I ask him. He asks me where I live; how long I am staying. I tell him two months. He asks me if I want to stay longer. Sure, why not? So then marry me. Wow, how simple! He is dancing with this woman in a cheetah print top. She looks like she went in to her plastic surgeon with a photo of Donatella Versace post-Gianni’s death. (Those were hard times for the house of Versace.) I tell him it looks like he already has a girlfriend. “No, no,” he says, “Mi cuñada, my sister. “ I don’t know that word, but I know I would never dance with my brother that way. I later learn she is his sister in law. She loves me. She totally approves of the engagement. Probably because I am blonde. She comes up to me and says, “My seester, he is too much, no?” in very broken English. She means brother, obviously. I think it is difficult for porteños to understand our nouns don’t have a gender. I don’t know her name, but her brother-in-law is Ricardo. He sells cars for Volkswagen and has lived alone since he was 20 (which is huge here; most people live with their parents until they are married. Often into their thirties). He attacks my face with his mouth. I was not expecting that. I flinch back in surprise. He asks me for “un beso de paz,” a peace offering. So I give him a peck back. He tells me Argetines are the best. “¿Los mejores de que?” I feign naïveté. The best sports players? The best businessmen? The best lovers, he insists. He asks me to leave with him. I tell him no. And he gets mad and leaves me. Then returns wearing his sports coat. Then repeats the request. Then leaves again. And I reunite with everyone else and we go on to another party. I think the engagement is off. But he has my number so who knows. (Rule #1: They never call.)
Cab Ride to Fede's: Fernando, Annemarie, Meg & JennyWe head on to an apartment party for one of Damian’s Rugby friends’ birthday. Federico (Fede) is a short stocky guy whose apartment is furnished with beanbag chairs, travel photography (Cuba, Colombia, Brasil) and Bob Marley posters. His friends throw down the key and we climb the two floors to apartment number 18. They are drinking Fernet y Coca-cola or Stella Artois. I opt for Fernet, I am told I must try it. It is bitter but cancels out the too sweet taste of Coke. It’s okay. Annemarie, Jenny, and I are the only girls. The rugby boys are nice. They speak English okay. But mostly castellano when they realize we all speak it. I sit down on a beanbag and talk to Juan. He makes fun of the way I whistle my S's, as if I were a Spaniard. They ask me if I studied in Madrid. Nope. Texas. He says my pronunciation is correct, just different from how they say it here. I am almost too proper. He hands me a book of poetry, asking if I have ever had my heart broken. He turns to a page about suffering for love and asks me to read it out loud. We continue to talk: I speak in castellano and he in English, a language exchange of sorts. When the place runs out of Coca-cola, he volunteers me to go get it with him. He wants to see me interact with the Argentine salespeople. I guess he doesn’t understand that this is what I do on a daily basis. So he hands me ten pesos and two litres of Coke. Hola. ¿Como te va? Bien bien, ¿Y vos? Bueno. Gracias. Chau. When we walk back he talks to me in English and then tries to kiss me when we reach the stairs. He doesn’t get huffy when I pull away and say, “Vamos.”
We head back into the party, and everyone is dancing and mixes new drinks. Around four we head out to Rumi, where Leandro told us to go earlier. There is a line. And a cover. Jenny convinces me to go. Fernando follows us. We make plans not to leave each other.
When we get in, we realize it is gay night. No wonder we still had to pay $30 pesos, they don’t care about girls tonight, even though there is a semi-dressed cabaret female. There are also like 5 gay male dancers with rock hard bodies and skimpy shorts. They wear Converse high tops and skinny ties over their bare chests. It’s bizarre. Jenny points behind me to a gay couple making out hardcore. Wow. They were really into each other.
I linger around the dancing couples with my free water (with purchase of entry ticket). Fernando, trying not to look gay on gay night at Rumi, grabs both of us. I pull away. I find Fernando annoying and only after one thing. I hear an American voice ask “Where are you from?” to Fernando. Fernando is a bit puzzling. A Mexican living in Britain who speaks Spanish with the accent of a Spaniard. I lean in to tell the tan blonde (gay?) boy with sparkling blue eyes that he is from Mexico, DF but he works in London. "And you?" "I am from Texas." He is from here. “You look like you are avoiding that guy,” he tells me. I confirm that I am. That he is dancing with my cousin’s roommate. He asks if I like the music: pulsing electronica. I like it, but I admit the constant drone makes me tired. He doesn’t like this music, but his friend is the DJ. Letters flash across flat screen televisions: B-A-L-C-A. We chat a bit, he is drinking Fernet y Coke; asks if I want a drink. I tell him thanks, but it’s been a long night I’d prefer to stick to my water. I’ve learned that accepting a drink is more of a commitment here than in The States. He’s fine with that but offers me a sip of his Fernet y Coke, saying most Americans don’t like it. I take a sip, we are in Argentina, the land of sharers, after all. We chat a bit more. He puts down his drink and asks me to dance. He is not pushy or aggressive like everyone else has been. He is very sweet. Doesn’t dance too close. His name is Nicolas, Nick. He won’t tell me his age. I guess he is younger than 30 because he is still sweet. I can hardly believe he is Argentine. He is gorgeous. And smart. He sometimes says weird things to me, but then again English is his third language (after Castellano and German). He has to take pictures of the DJ, so he films a few sets while we continue to dance. He turns the camera toward us, but the viewfinder only catches a glimpse of my eye. (I wonder what I look like when I dance?) He tells me his heart is not strong enough for me. These Latin men are so dramatic, but I’m starting to like it. He won’t tell me his age, he says somewhere between 16 and 24. I tease him for being too young to be in the club. He shakes his right hand in Argentine fashion (when someone makes a joke, you kinda snap your fingers and flick your wrist. It’s a weird custom, but it means he thinks I am funny). He tells me he is 21. I feel old. We stick to Jenny and Fernando’s side. Eventually Jenny asks me if I am ready to go. Nick looks at me and says (in a slightly British accent), “I don’t want to sound forward, but I really want to take you home.” I’m sure I make a face that makes him quickly correct himself, “In my car.” I ask Jenny if she thinks that’s a good idea. He can take her home too. We are close to Palermo. Fernando will sleep on her couch. I tell them they can stay with me, on the futon, in Ben’s extra bed. Nick laughs at my use of the word “y’all.” We let him take us home.
He stops by the coat check to get his coat. We cross the street to his car, a purplish Volvo. His friends call it The Eggplant. I sit up front, and Rihanna’s “Please Don’t Stop the Music” plays. "Great song…" "Really? It’s more of a pre-Boliche song," and he pops in Bob Marley’s Legend Album. “My good friend Robert Marley,” he calls him. We drive down Libertador to get to Jenny’s house on Santa Fe & Coronel Diaz. Nick lights a cigarette and tells me to grab the wheel. I am driving on Libertador from the passenger seat. The largest street in the world. As it arcs to the left. I feel like I am playing Mario Kart, but this is real life. We make it. We drop off Jenny and Fernando. I ask her if she wants me to call her when I get home. She says no. So then we try to find my place. I tell him the intersection. This means nothing to him. "¿Conoces La Plaza Vicente Lopez?" Nope. Nada. "Callao y Santa Fe," I tell him, as he changes CDs, “Do you like lounge music? Too bad you are not European.” We eventually find our way to my block (so many baby stores and furniture shops, I even get lost in the daylight), my hand resting on his knee, I sit Indian style in the passenger seat. We exchange numbers and goodnight kisses and I leave. He says he’ll call me on Thursday. He has an “entrega” tomorrow for his architecture job. It is 6:45 am. I walk into the apartment shaken and disheveled. The doorman eyes me funny as I slip into the elevator.
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