And In Other News...

A group of "uncontacted" tribal natives in the Brazilian Amazon along the Peruvian border ("And you wanted to take the bus!?" Annemarie e-mailed me) was photographed shooting arrows at a passing airplane. They seem to be completely isolated from other human beings and what we would call "civilization" since they aren't familiar with airplanes... (Civilization. Are we really civilized? Yes or no, who are we to judge? When thousands of innocent men can be brutally enslaved or killed by a racist grudge... Wise words by Arrested Development, circa 1992.) It seems the verdict is to leave them be, continuing to isolate them from modern development so as to keep their heritage preserved and prevent them from exposure to common diseases that might kill them off à la New World colonization. Problems arise when illegal foresters begin to chop down trees in their land. Anthropologists imagine there are up to 68 other "uncontacted" groups, mainly in Brazil.

And then there's the controversial Rachael Ray scarf. Squeaky clean foodie Rachael, known for her 30 minute meals and sickening habit of making up words like "spoonula" and "yumm-o," has been accused of being a terrorist after her stylist-selected paisley scarf was mistaken for a kaffiyeh. So now Dunkin Donuts has yanked the ads, and Americans look, well, dumb and racist. Good job, guys. When you look closely, her scarf clearly has a paisley design. But I suppose every one needs to find something to complain about. It's like Leandro said when he picked up the newspaper, "Problemas, problemas, siempre hay problemas." Which is true, no matter whether it's the descending dollar or the smoke blowing in from los campos, farmer strikes and city protests, or even Kanye West wearing a kaffiyeh in his music video for "Homecoming." Guess what guys? I have one too. And I think I'll wear it for my homecoming on June 26/27. Hope they don't kick me off the plane for being a terrorist...



And to those of you who wonder why I sit alone in the cafe with my journal sprawled open, some advice from one of my favorite living authors (from a Newsweek interview):

You said you have more than 30 years recorded in your diary, is that why you never run out of material?
All you have to do is live.

Thank you, David Sedaris.

Random Encounters, or El Mundo Es Un Panuelo

Last night while in line for Starbucks I met a man from Amarillo, TX. He had married an Argentine woman and is now working here. I told him I knew Amarillo because my cousins grew up there. We didn't play the Name Game though. He had a very weak jaw line. He told me you only visit Amarillo to see someone or pass through on your way to Denver, then he decided that the line was too long. I think his wife was disappointed they didn't wait for her coffee. I'm pretty sure I stood in line an hour and a half after they left, so he might've made the right decision. As I walked home (across the street) with my Venti to-go cup in one hand and my gift-wrapped Starbucks coffee mug in the other, a neighbor asked me how it was. I told him it tasted the same as in The States. He asked where I was from, I told him Texas. Which part? Originally Dallas. Oh I only know Austin and San Antonio. Oh, I went to school in Austin, actually I'm going back there for mis estudios de posgrado. Turns out he went to UT on a rugby scholarship, "but that was twenty years ago," he tells me in English. I forget which floor he lives on. People can always peg me as one of the girls who lives on the 5th floor because it is known that our apartment is the rental unit, and usually it's always rented by Americans. I don't even have to open my mouth and an old lady in the elevator going up will ask me in English, "5th floor?" Not in a mean way, just matter of fact. Sometimes they want to practice their English, and others prefer that I practice my Spanish. Either way I don't really mind. It's better than standing silently in the elevator though. It's already small enough without the weight of silence crowding you in. They all seem to ask me the same questions, and all of them are very satisfied that I am enjoying Argentina. Lately they like to remind me to grab a scarf.
Last night at the bar there were a couple of French dudes who preferred to communicate in English, possibly because I don't speak French. The new bartender is French-Canadian, so she speaks French but no English and barely any Spanish. She also doesn't know how to make drinks, so it's frustrating for me to try to explain it to her in Spanish while she puffs away on her cigarette and blows smoke in my direction. Anyway, the French boys were nice. Upon hearing I was from Texas, they inevitably mention George W. Bush, which I had begun to forget was the norm. They brought up Obama and I exclaimed "I love Obama!" and they gave me a hug. Turns out one of the guys' dads is friends with Sarkozy, the French President, and they both got to fly the French equivalent of Air Force One to the US and saw him speak. Met him and Michelle. "Nice people," they told me. They also told me I should come visit them in France, in Europe, wherever. That would be nice, boys, but you should've told me your names.
Met an Australian named Angus last night at the bar. He was nice. Had the accent. He was with Michigan Boy (is that where he's from? Oh well, whatever, the American boy who is always with British Hostel Guy.) When I heard his name I told him he was the first Angus I'd ever met. When I said that he replied, "And you're the first Texan who didn't say, 'Angus like the beef?'" I explained to him that perhaps it was because prior to my arrival to Buenos Aires I was a vegetarian. Might explain a few things. (I also had to explain this detail to Leandro when I ordered my latte with soy milk. That when I stopped eating meat I figured I should get protein somehow, and soy it was. But that of course I had to sample meat in Buenos Aires "porque es el mejor en el mundo." I didn't reveal to him that I rarely, next to never, eat beef.) Angus was nice, but after so long talking to him with his broken Spanish, I figured I was getting paid to be a waitress not a Spanish teacher, so I left him with his pint.
The night was very tranqui, or calm, but we still stayed open until 6:30 am. I guess no one wanted to go back out and brave the cold. Martin, the guy who tipped me $100 last weekend because "I heard it was your second night on the job," hosted his friend's bachelor party upstairs and I was to attend to his every whim. He recently invested in the bar, so we try to keep him happy. He's the guy who started Expat Connection, so he's pretty well connected to say the least. He gave me $80 pesos folded up and told me, "This is for you." I was really tempted to keep it to myself, since I did have to bust my tail to keep up with their orders, but in the end I split it with the others. If it weren't for the bartenders I would have nothing to serve, and if the busboy weren't there we'd have no clean glasses. It really is all about team work when it comes down to it. One big happy family at Sugar.

Things I've Learned While Working at a Bar:

1. If someone asks to take your glass, we're probably running low on clean ones.
2. Ordering your drink twice (from multiple bartenders) is rude, and usually the employees get annoyed and end up drinking your duplicate beverage in the kitchen. Unless it's a Fernet & Coke, no one really wants that.
   
3. At the end of the night when you're drunk, keep in mind that the bar employees are not, and therefore they are less susceptible to your advances. In fact, we probably find them annoying.
   
4. No one wants to make you a mojito during peak hours.
   
5. When the bar is empty, the staff recommends the most expensive drink. When the bar is full, "May I suggest a bottled beer?"
   
6. Two wells drinks during Happy Hour cost about as much as a bottle of the cheap liquor used. After midnight? Well you just paid for the full bottle, Buddy.
   
7. When you hear bad music, that is your sign to leave. No one wants to kick you out, but we will coerce you to leave by playing horrible songs and hiding all the ashtrays.
8. Don't ask where another bar/club is located. Yep, we know where it is. We've probably been there. But we don't want to lose your money. We want you here. And when you call it Nicero Lounge instead of Niceto Lounge, I can honestly say I have no clue what that is. (Hint: if you knew the proper name, you could get there no problem in a taxi because the address is part of it.)
9. A Cuba Libre is also referred to as a "Mentirosa," or Liar, because Cuba isn't free. It's Communist.
   
10. Crowding the bar and blocking the pathway to the kitchen is just another way to add to your wait.
    

Starbucks #3

These things are now littering the streets of my neighborhood. The lines haven't died down either. I met Leandro on my street corner at 4:30 pm and we waited for an hour. I know, I know, two days in a row? Three hours in one weekend waiting for Starbucks? But Leandro has been such a good friend and he had been talking about Starbucks coming to Argentina forever. I felt bad going without him last night when I realized he couldn't make it. But I was in line and I was going to duke it out. So I just conceded that I'd go with him again. Like I said, it's easy to get caught up in the hype. He has had Starbucks in Chile and Brazil, and he traced mock tears of joy down his cheek when he took his first sip of Starbucks in his country.
He ordered a frapucchino, apparently his favorites are Sweet Caramel and Chocolate Menta, but they didn't have Mint Chocolate here. (I've never seen it.) He says the Starbucks here is modeled after the European stores, since most Argentines are accustomed to more European notions. The food offerings are less American, although after an hour and no lunch I added a blueberry muffin (probably the most American item) to my Grande Dulce de Leche Latte. Leandro had a Frapucchino de Chocolate Blanco and un roll, which is a sticky pastry I didn't much care for. Apparently it is to share, I guess I wasn't supposed to order my muffin but I didn't get that memo.
We were able to snag a seat inside and I asked him if he thought Starbucks was going to steal business from the smaller cafeterias (coffee shops, not the kind of cafeteria you're thinking of) and strip Buenos Aires of its cafe culture. He says no. That coffee here is cultural, ritualistic. You grab a coffee, smoke a cigarette and chat with your friends. He said his parents would never come to Starbucks. As I glance down the snaking line I see the crowd is quite young. Kids raised on sugar and caffeine and American movies clutching their green straws like it's some kind of prize. He also explains to me the difference between caramel and dulce de leche after I tell him we don't have dulce de leche in The States really. He says dulce de leche is sugar, milk, and vanilla cooked and stirred in a copper ("What is the one cent made of?") pot. And caramel is water and sugar with vanilla. Caramelizing the sugar with water makes caramel. Caramelizing sugar with milk makes dulce de leche, or "sweet of the milk." In Brazil it's made with condensed milk; that just sounds too sweet to me. Leandro agrees. After I finished my muffin and the last few gotitas of my coffee, Leandro takes his to go cup and we wandered through the mall together. It felt kind of like a date in the 'burbs, but I think he just wanted to show me around since he's had some interviews with the company who owns all the malls (Alto Palermo, Galerias Pacificos, Abasto Shopping, Palacio Alcorta, etc.) in the city. He's tired of working at the bank. He likes numbers but he really wants to work with people. He's naturally very outgoing. While we were waiting in line for our coffee, Warner Lewis passed by. I introduced him to Leandro, but he went on; didn't want to wait for coffee. Leandro tells me "el mundo es chico," small world (I had always been taught the Spanish idiom was "el mundo es un panuelo," or literally "the world is a handkerchief,") then he asks me if I am a member of Small World. No, what is it? A networking club. He would be a member. He's such a nice guy. He's probably the Argentine I will miss the most. He speaks to me in Spanish but sometimes switches to English because he needs the practice. Ben is on a flight home right now. Weird. I barely saw him once I moved out.

Starbucks #2

"Eh-star-bucks." "Stoor-backs." "Steer-buhks." I heard those sounds for the past two hours. Yes, tonight I did the unthinkable and waited two hours and fifteen minutes for Starbuck’s coffee. It’s ridiculous I know; I would never wait that long in The States. And the coffee isn’t even all that special. But somehow I got caught up in all that hype. So I waited in line. And waited. And waited. By the time I hit the one-hour mark, I had made friends with a few Argentine girls: Maggie, Barbie and Lola. Maggie and Barbie practiced their English with me, Lola doesn’t speak it. I think they assumed I didn’t know Spanish (although surely they heard me on the phone with Leandro, who, after I texted him, asked me why I didn’t wait for him? I told him we can go together tomorrow afternoon.) But after seeing them shuffle around to get each girl in a picture with a Starbucks umbrella, or a Starbucks sign, or an empty Starbucks cup, I asked them “¿Quieren una foto con las tres?” They were so grateful. And then of course they wanted to know where I was from. If I was from Texas why was I waiting in line for Starbucks? (Good question.) I told him it had been a while since I had Starbucks, but really it’s only been a month since we had it in Chile. They were sweet girls. The ones in front of me seemed not as nice. But these three were all around 18 years old and asked if they could add me as a friend on facebook. “What is your last name?” they asked, and when I told them they sighed, “Ah how cute!” it’s funny to have an exotic name here. Maggie even told me Meg was her favorite English girl's name, but ours are very similar. (Hers is short for Magdalena.)

Lola, Maggie & Barbie

Once we made it onto the terrace we snatched up free samples of espresso. “¡Mierda!” one of the girls exclaimed. They are not used to black coffee, which I learned is called “a secas.” It was funny to see their first sips. You could tell their minds were reeling: I waited in line all this time for this? When little old ladies saw the lines on the street they would ask me (the blonde, least Argentine-looking person in all the line) what we were waiting for. When I told them coffee, they’d mutter “Only in Argentina…¡que típico!” But time passed at a decent pace, especially after making friends with those three girls. I’m always thrilled to make girlfriends here, even if they are 5 years younger and practically teeny-boppers. “I feel like I’m in an American movie!” Barbie exclaimed when she took her first sip of her dulce de leche venti latte. I ordered a caramel macchiato con leche de soja, because I figured I didn’t want to wait two hours for plain ole coffee. My total came to $14.50 (about the same price you’d pay in The States at a 3.09:1 ratio,) plus the money I spent on a souvenir for Daddy. Not to ruin the surprise, but he gets the last Buenos Aires Starbucks coffee mug sold on opening day. I’d take a picture, but they wrapped it up rather nicely. They still had a few blue Argentina Starbucks mugs left, but that one showed the mountains, and I’ve never been to those mountains. I don’t know them. I know Buenos Aires. “And this one has the tango,” Maggie reaffirmed my choice. They were sweet girls. I helped them doctor up their drinks with cocoa powder and blonde sugar. I added cinnamon; they did not seem to care for it (too much spice.) Nor did they seem to like the nutmeg, which I believe they’d never seen. On such a cold night the coffee and with cinnamon felt nice. Almost like Christmas. In May.

Opening night at Starbucks in Alto Palermo

Oh, and I think Starbucks is really making an effort to blend in with (some aspects of) Argentine culture, as they served alfajores, ham and cheese sandwiches, dulce de leche lattes, and even a mate latte, which sounds disgusting to me.

Earlier in the day I met up with Annemarie in her neighborhood for some Peruvian food. Since I’m not trying it in person anytime soon, I figure I best try it now. We went to Primera Trujillana on Roosevelt and it was delicious. We ended up sharing everything because we weren’t sure what we ordered or whose was whose. So we ate goat cheese stuff spring rolls with avocado, fried calamari and white fish served with red onions and a spicy sauce, and some other fish smothered in cheese and a butter sauce with shrimps aptly named “Primera Tujillana.” I figured you couldn’t go wrong with a place’s signature dish. It really was amazing. We’ll have to go back before I leave. Less than a month now…

Tonight I am working, Jenny is staying in because her Polo Boy* has practice, and Annemarie has an “anniversary of the night we met” date with Damian. He says he’s got something big planned for her. She stopped by a flower kiosk to buy flowers for their place because he loves jasmin, which Annemarie and I could swear is the same as gardenias because they smell the same. When she was buying them we were chatting in English and the flower vendor looked at us, “You are not from here.” She said. “What country are you from?” I told her the United States and she nodded and stammered in Spanish “Because you are so…” and then she motioned a gesture I took to mean tall. At first I thought she knew we were not from here because we looked different, but when I walked away I realized she didn’t understand we were speaking English. She knew we were speaking another language, she just didn’t know which one. It reminded me of the time in Merida, Mexico that one of the construction workers asked me to show him where I lived. On a map of Mexico. I had to tell him that I lived further north. That my hometown wasn’t on this map. I was never sure if he understood.

*Jenny is going to visit Fernando in Europe in August. Her parents paid for the plane ticket and he said he’ll pay for the rest. But she’s been seeing this Polo Boy a lot lately. When someone is being cheated on you say, “he’s got his horns on.” I never understood it until Damian explained it. It’s like saying someone is putting bunny ears up behind your head. They’re making fun of you behind your back. Jenny says she and Fernando are in an “open” relationship. But I don’t think you make a trans-Atlantic flight for someone you only have lukewarm feelings for. But in the wise words of Verbena from the 1961 version of Parent Trap: “It’s none of my nevermind. I don’t say a word. Not a single word.”

Milion

I’m moving through these plates of my B&B desayuno completo pretty quickly. I thought I’d be more hungover from the absinthe, but I don’t feel bad at all. In retrospect, I’ve definitely been drunker in the past, just not off of such a little amount. It just hit me so fast. And hard when I was on the bus home. Green I want you green, underneath the gypsy moon. But it sounds better it Garcia Lorca’s native Spanish: “verde te quiero verde, debajo de la luna gitana…” And Annemarie was taking pictures of the black cat on the bar, snuggled under a cloth white napkin between bottles of wine.
He’s sweet I guess. I just don’t like cats. Or animals where my food/drink is being prepared. Isn’t that illegal? But then again, so is absinthe. Even in Argentina. And yet it is on the menu. Absenta - $41. Damian asked the waiter about it. He told us the proof (close to 80%, anise-derived no sugar added,) let us smell the bottle. It smelled like a minty Jagermeister. And tasted about like that too. But it burned all the way down.
Perhaps I was supposed to shot it all at once, but that would’ve been disastrous. (The waiter did warn me, “Buena suerte,” as he handed me the tiny glass.) Who knew something so small would be so powerful? Dynamite in a glass. Halfway through it became a battle: I’d take a tiny sip and hold it under my tongue to keep from feeling the burning sensation drip down my throat. Annemarie and Damian each took a sip; they didn’t ask for seconds. I don’t know how the Parisian writers did it. Suck it up and drink it down I guess. Whatever gets the creative juices flowing. And for many I imagine it was The Green Fairy.

Moulin Rouge leaves me with so many false expectations.

I never saw her. But then again I only took one. Over the course of two hours’ time. And I kind of think these days it’s a bit more purified than in 1890s bohemian France. (Although absinthe was vilified, no evidence has shown it to be any more dangerous than ordinary liquor. Its psychoactive properties, apart from those of ethanol, have been much exaggerated.) But now I can say I’ve tried it – and isn’t that a major part of travel? Trying new things? I don’t know how much I’d like to try it again… Annemarie’s drinks (a Hope Sour and a Frozen Mojito) tasted a whole lot better, so did Jenny’s Pisco Sour. And they were a whole lot less vicious. But I suppose I drank fewer calories. More bang for your buck.

The group: Ben, Jenny, Damian, Annemarie & me.

And speaking of bucks, Silvana has a new job: dying poodles. After one of Juan Jo’s friends’ girlfriends saw Camila with the pink fur, she offered Sil $100 pesos to dye her dog pink! And along that vein, the Sex and the City movie doesn’t come out here until 12 June, so please don’t spoil it for me! I might have to wait in line with my Starbuck's in hand, it opened this morning and the lines were insane.

Absinthe

I will defeat you, I said to the menacing green liquid as it stared back at me from its unassuming glass. But in the morning we shall see who won.

El Caminito

They say it’s good luck to carry a sugar packet in your wallet, to make life sweeter or help you out with money I don’t know. “Buscate un buen compañero de viaje antes de buscar la ruta,” says the one from Dani, our waiter in La Boca. I keep it in my coin purse with the one Silvana gave me. I suppose it’s good luck until you reach in your purse for change and find not coins but three packets of leaking sugar. Welcome to the good life. We didn’t make it to ACORN. I guess third time’s a charm. We’ll try again. I’m determined. We did manage to make it out to La Boca, and I saw El Caminito long enough to say I saw it. I hate tourist traps, and this is the king of them all in Buenos Aires. We ended up sneaking into a colorful alleyway along the railroad tracks to take pictures as schoolchildren in puffy coats ran by.

The Yellow Coat Series continues.

And then we had an hour or so before the art class at ACORN started, so we sat down in a café a little of the beaten path (adjacent to the yellow-clad Proa construction site) so I could use the facilities and we could warm up from the cold. La Boca was settled mainly by Italian immigrants, so we figured this Italian place by the docks was a safe bet. A pretty authentic choice. We started out only wanting coffee, even though I had just crushed a cup with Annemarie at Pizza Donna before our bus ride, but Jenny wanted French fries. Our waiter was so sweet but hard of hearing. He recommended the papas fritas criollas cooked with red peppers, onions and lemon juice. Despite the addition of vegetables, Jenny ordered them and they were delicious. Covered in grease though. I only allowed myself one bite. Okay two. The waiter said they were rich enough for a meal; he was right. Since Jenny was ordering food I opted for some gnocchi, it being the 29th and Gnocchi Day. I figured it was wiser to order it now than be running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to find gnocchi between volunteering and 10 pm drinks at Milion. Annemarie stuck with her coffee and house-made tiramisu. What I didn’t hear the waiter tell the girls while I was in the ladies’ room was that the kitchen wasn’t running yet but that they’d start it up for us. So between that and our deaf waiter, the meal took more time than we had allowed.

Annemarie points out the current River Plate coach among all the Boca Juniors soccer memorabilia

By the time we had finished our plates (the food was delicious. My gnocchi with tucu y crema sauce was very rich. And Annemarie’s tiramisu portion was so huge she split it with me) and paid the bill, it was approaching dark and the ACORN community center would only be open for another 45 minutes. We attempted heading over there by bus (didn’t know which route) and by foot (didn’t know how to get there,) but in the end Annemarie and I decided there was no need to put ourselves in peril by tempting fate in the dark streets of impoverished La Boca. And it seemed silly to show up as new volunteers with only 30 minutes to close. I’m sure they’d love that we were interested, but I’m also afraid we’d come across as a nuisance at that hour. (And I doubt they’d buy the “We got lost” excuse after smelling our garlic breath.) So we roll with it. Laugh it off. We had a nice meal, saw a new part of town. Met a nice waiter who wanted me to dance the tango with him (“One lesson is enough!”) and asked me “¿Sos una modelo? You could be.” So you just take it for what it is. Things hardly ever work out as planned here. And it inevitably takes longer to do things than you’d expect. Annemarie admitted that two months ago, this would’ve really driven her crazy, but now it’s just kind of part of the ride. “We’ll go on Monday,” she told me. At this point I’d like to go at least once. If only to keep Ali and Sara updated on their kids and support all their past efforts.

Green Tea

It is 7° C right now, that's 40° F. My body is not cut out for two winters. I bundled up for my run after Cristina left (I love her!) but I only made it halfway before deciding to create a new path and head home. It's easy to justify a shorter workout/jogging route when you walk everywhere and dance all night. Today I ate an avocado & cream cheese sandwich and listened to summery songs on my iPod, but it doesn't make me feel any warmer. We're supposed to volunteer in La Boca with ACORN today and grab drinks at Milion later tonight. Jenny asked if she could "slap the kids around and tell them that's how we do it in The States." I told her absolutely not. I don't think she gets the idea of a community center... it's not like the Recoleta kids ship out to La Boca to play with Americans, these are kids from La Boca. We are trying to create a positive influence, teaching them constructive ways to deal with their problems as opposed to the violence they've been exposed to. She also wants to hire a clown for her birthday and make him juggle dry ice. "It would burn his hands!" "I want to see him try." I told her I would take no part in that. She would end up on CNN or something for cruelty to a human being.
Last night she threw away a half a pizza she had just made herself. Still hot from the oven. "I don't eat leftovers," she told me as she wrapped it in a trash bag. "Give it to someone on the street!" I insisted. "No one wants my half-eaten food," she tells me as she carries the bag out to the hallway. "Why didn't you just make half?" "Because I didn't want to tear the crust." I told her (jokingly but seriously) that she is going to be an awful nun. She says maybe she'll just live out on a ranch by herself. I think maybe that would be best. It's obviously the solitude she craves, not the whole praising God by helping others. (My conception of nunhood is inspired by books and movies, but isn't that a universal Christian value? Praising God by helping others? "What is man's chief end?" "To glorify God and enjoy Him forever." Thank you Westminster Shorter Catechism.)
But seriously, Jenny has a serious mean streak. Sometimes it makes me uncomfortable. She just wants to be left alone, but I don't think she should be a nun. The Catholic Church has enough drama as is, no need for her to add to it by petitioning for Prada-designed habits and child abuse in parish schools. She doesn't believe in therapy (Buenos Aires has more psychologists per capita than any other city) because she thinks it's weird to tell strangers your problems. But I think she could really benefit from it, what with her ghost sightings and anger management and all...

I had thought we could get to La Boca early and hit up this museum I read about in my Wallpaper book: Fundacion Proa. But it is still under remodeling and will reopen in October with a Marcel Duchamp exhibit. (I studied him in my one Art History class.) Right now I'm a teensy bit jealous of Annemarie for staying: the River/Boca game and an upturned ceramic urinal called art all in one month? Fantastic.

Duchamp's "Fountain," 1917

Just e-mailed Mom some photographs of her sussie. I gave up on finding art, but silver is a big industry in Buenos Aires. The river here is Rio de la Plata, which means "silver river" but is usually translated as River Plate. Plata can also mean money, a sort of slang like cash.

(Silver is hard to photograph.)

Oh, and in other news, Rachael Ray's Dunkin Donuts ads were just yanked because she wore a "terrorist" scarf, which is basically what all the rollingas wear. Sorry chica. I still think I'll wear mine when I get home.

Starbucks

I'm afraid Leandro was misinformed. Starbucks was very much not open to the public today. I went by this evening to check out the mob scene and grab a soy latte para llevar, but the whole place was blocked off: velvet ropes, valet parking... probably the closest thing I've seen to a black-tie event since I got here. There were sheer curtains blocking the windows, but through the glass doors you could see people crammed in to hear this guy give a speech about how excited he was to bring Starbucks to this country. It was pretty obvious that the speech maker was not a native speaker. (Which basically means I had no trouble understanding him.)

So I ended up turning around the corner to McCafe, McDonald's coffee shop, and ordered a lagrima, which is 85% milk, 15% espresso, and what I thought to be a better decision at 8:30 pm.

Then two hours later Sherwin the Jamaican called me to go out. Nope, I've already got my contacts out. Sorry buddy, next time try calling earlier.

Whistle While You Work

So I guess I "officially" have a job down here. I put officially in quotes because I have no DNI, it's totally under the table and they pay me in cash at the end of each night, but that's pretty much the best of all worlds here in South America. So here is a virtual tour of my "office," if you will. And a few head shots of my lovely British employers.

This is the bar. You probably recognize some of the bottles on the upper shelves. The bottom shelf is all nationals and/or wells, also known as "the cheap stuff."

This is my domain: the front of the bar. In the background is a lower level (only a couple steps down) where Argentine couples like to order one drink and then make out for hours. Ah, Latin American PDA!

This is the bar on a not-so-crazy night. I say not-so-crazy because one of the bartenders was able to dance on the bar instead of mixing drinks. I present to you Kristin from Austin. Here you can also see the back of the bar, or at least the part that's not blocked by hoards of people.

This is another view of my domain, as seen from the upper floor where the bathrooms are located. (With unisex sink areas so there's not much privacy for girly primping in the mirror.) This balcony of sorts overlooks the front bar and coffee machine -- which no one besides the Argentines knows how to use, a few scattered tables and the entrance.

This is Con, the business-minded half.

This is Matt, the mischievous, fun-loving half.
(As if you couldn't tell...)

And here they are the first night I met them when they offered me a job.
(What was I thinking?)

P.S. Matt is 43 and Con is 39. When I told Con my birthday was coming up and "Can you play The Beatles birthday song if I'm working then?" he told me he was a junior in high school when I was born. They certainly don't act like they're that old.

"I love you."

There are two ways to say "I love you" in Spanish, and I never quite understood why. I remember once asking one of the Hondurans in my Spanish classes when you would use one or the other, and all she told me was this: "Te quiero is like 'aw, te quiero...,'" and she said it in a sappy, drippy voice, "but te amo is like 'te amo.'" And she said that one very seriously. So I sort of understood, but not really. Annemarie explained to me the difference between "Te amo" and "Te quiero." Te amo is like what I would personally think of when you say "I love you." It's reserved for only one person. It's Love with a capital L. Te quiero is literally "I want you," but it also means I love you. From what I understand, it's what you say to your friends when you're like "Okay, love you bye!" That would be te quiero. It's still "I love you," but less amorous.

Annemarie said the first time Damian said any form of "I love you" he said it in English. Ezequiel was telling me that he preferred to speak to me in English, because, as he said, "I could say 'You are very beautiful,' and still mean it, but for some reason it is easier to say." I think I understand why. It's as if it means less because it's not your native language. You're just trying it on to see how the words feel in your mouth.

RU:be Gay Night

Coffee at B&B Café today. ¿El desayuno completo tenés? Well then what do you have for breakfast at 1:24 pm? That’s why I’m here. I was out until 5 am and I want breakfast. But if I had wanted eggs I could’ve woken up Voulez Bar and gone to Jenny. Scratch that, reverse it. Willy Wonka style. But it’s freezing (10˚ C) and Voulez Bar smelled bad the last time I ate inside. Things here aren’t always as pretty as they seemed once you see them inside. I’m bummed about this (lack of) promotion. They didn’t advertise hours for it. So what if it’s lunchtime? You still sell it all. Last night was Gay Night: just slap some tostados, mermelada, dulce de leche, two medialunas, a glass of orange juice and some coffee on a plate. Tada! Desayuno completo. Are you really going to make me order it all separately? Fine, I guess I’ll just order half of it for the full price. Café con leche y tostados con dulce for $14, as opposed to the whole shebang for $15. I suppose if the coffee’s decent I can come back at an earlier hour. Starbuck’s is open today, according to Leandro. And he would know; he’s obsessed. (His current Facebook status is: QUIERO MI FRAPU SWEET CARAMEL DE STARBUCKS YAA!!) I would probably trust his insight over the guard I asked yesterday… Went to Sugar with Jenny around 11 pm last night so she could see the place and grab a cheap vodka+Sprite during Happy Hour. Only we use 7-Up and cheap nacional vodka if you don’t specify. Con made me a mojito (Matt doesn’t know how.) It was extra strong. And free. “You can handle it,” he told me. Jamie and her sister Jacqui were there, and also headed to Rumi. But they left at midnight and we didn’t want to get there before 2 am. (Or without Leandro.) Ah, the B&B stands for its cross streets, Bulnes y Beruti. I need to buy groceries after this: wheat bread, yogurts, dulce de leche, fruits and vegetables… My quinoa risotto with Andres was phenomenal. I wish I knew how to make that… But last night was fun. Started off with an ice cream dinner with Jenny, using my 2X1 Il Diverso coupon from the grocery store. She had a chocolate diverso cone (chocolate blended with nuts, white chocolate chunks, and dulce de leche) and I had mint chocolate chip with bitter chocolate. You always get to blend two flavors. The word for cone is cucurucho. Then we walked home, I video chatted with Brinkley and Goodier, got an email from Sherwin the Jamaican saying he was on his way to Taco Tuesday (a little late notice, buddy,) showered, and headed out. Sugar was pretty busy for a Tuesday night. I’m glad Jenny got to see it, although that’s only what it looks like when I get there at 11. British Hostel Guy was there with a guy from Seattle. They commented that I had been talking a lot, didn’t I need to work? I told them it was my night off as I tossed a few popcorn kernels lightly into my mouth. “You know it’s a good bar if the employees come by on their nights off…” They comment that I have a more neutral accent. (Perhaps I hadn’t said “y’all” in a while. Yesterday Andres tried to say “w’all,” as in short for “we all.” I told him it didn’t work like that, but A for effort.) I tell him it’s because I’ve been away from Southerners for too long; and that after working at Sugar for a month I might start talking like those Brits. “Elongate your vowels,” British Hostel Guy doesn’t remember doing impressions of English accents at the bar on Saturday.

A typical weekend night at Bar Sugar Buenos Aires

At 1:30 or so we hear from Leandro to meet up for Rumi. We can either stop by his friend’s house (they’re about to leave,) or meet at the gate. Since we’re in Palermo, I opt for the gate. Some day we’ll have to plan ahead to meet somewhere before. (I tried to invite him for drinks at Sugar, but he was still eating dinner at midnight.) I always meet his friends in loud dance clubs and I can never catch their names. Watching these old ladies leave their tip reminds me of something Con told me last night. “How much did you all make in tips on Saturday?” “$45” “Man, if you all were in The States working on a night like that you would’ve easily come home with $300 dollars in tips.” It’s times like this it’s best not to think of the conversion rate. (Which is now 3.110:1 and dropping.) People here don’t tip much, and it doesn’t make me a more sympathetic tipper really. Perhaps because I don’t have as much disposable income. I suppose I’d come back here for coffee if I were early enough for the promotion. It’s adjacent to the Cinemark, so I wonder if it’s a glorified concessions stand of sorts. I could see a movie today. I’m not down for wandering the streets of San Telmo. It’s too cold. “Ya viene el invierno,” Leandro says as he greets us with cheek-kisses and we check our coats. It is less crowded than last Gay Night I went to, as that was the day before a holiday and no one had work in the morning. But nevertheless, last night there was a crowd of attractive people. “Gente linda,” Leandro called them. I remember last time we went out with Leandro he thought the crowd wasn’t so great. It goes in ebbs and flows I guess.

Leandro, Meg, and flashing green lights for DJ Balca's return

Making a really unattractive face but trying to show off my free glow-in-the-dark bracelets

Last night was gay men; devoted followers of DJ Balca (o el cochino si preferés;) a really cool looking girl in a strappy sequined dress, black tights and Converse All-Stars; and Jenny’s Colombian Polo guy. Her face lit up when she saw him. He was cute, I’ll admit. But his friend was a jerk. Sometimes I think Jenny only likes people who have something to offer her, like money or horses. This guy’s got it. After all, she’s the one who was mad at me for not flirting with Diego more because his family owns a Mexican food restaurant in Cordoba… and she has that whole Martin history. She keeps telling me to date him so he will spend a lot of money on me for my birthday. Hmm… I’ll pass. He texted me last night. Asked what I was doing. “Rumi Gay Night, you?” No response. And then Jenny and I swore we saw him on the dance floor. I was livid. “Do you want to go say hi to him?” “No.” And then thank goodness the boy smiled and wasn’t gap-toothed. Just another tall blonde with a German face. Phew. So Jenny and I are dancing with the Colombians while I look for Leandro (we lost him when we came back from the ladies’ room.) He finds us and walks us across the dance floor. Of course the Colombians follow. (I think Jenny is holding her boy Felipe’s hand.) “Pensé que les chamullen,” Leandro tells me. I explain to him that the tall guy is Jenny’s friend and a Colombian polo player, but that the other one is bothering me.

The rude Colombian still wanted a picture with me

Jenny, Meg and Leandro at Rumi/Club Be/RU:be

So Leandro dances with me and keeps me from having to deal with the poseur-rollinga. This dude was rude upon introduction: “¿De donde eres?” “De los Estados Unidos.” He makes a face like he doesn’t understand. “De Texas,” I clarify. Still nothing. “¡Tejas!” I yell into his ear. Nope. So he asks me, “¿De donde sos?” Didn’t I just answer that? I tell him again. He seems to hear me this time. “Then why do you talk like you’re from here?” “Because I live here,” I answer. He switched to English and his is hard to understand. And he’s pushy. Like his friend has got Jenny so that makes me his. I finally motion that it’s too loud to talk. (British Hostel Guy had told me earlier in the night that I should start being meaner. This was after he asked if I was from a particularly nice part of Dallas because I hold myself so well. I tell him, “what kind of question is that?” and that I’d rather credit years of ballet.) He tries to dance with me – another grab her hand and spin her ‘round type – and I step away. “What’s wrong? You don’t have t be so serious.” I tell him he was rude earlier and I don’t want to dance with him. He looks at me puzzled and grabs me again. Finally, exasperated, I tell him, “Look, I come to Gay Night so boys will leave me alone.” “I don’t get it. Are you normal or are you a lesbian?” “I’m straight, but I’m not interested.” I should’ve just told him I was a lesbian, because even then he didn’t get the (rather strong) hint. But I get so sick of the token straight guys at Rumi Tuesday who grab at me because they’re homophobes afraid of getting harassed in the club. (When I told Andres I was going to see Balca at Gay Night, he asked if I’d pretend to be his girlfriend. I told him “no” without thinking twice about whether it would hurt his feelings.) I thought Jenny’s Polo Boy was a jerk by association. Dime con quien andas y te digo quien eres. But Leandro kept me company and eventually Polo Boy, Felipe, left. He asked me if we were going to Museum – where he met Jenny last week. I tell him no. Why not? Because I’m here right now. And I have to sleep some time. Museum plays the same track list every Wednesday night. Same songs at the same times. If I here MIKA start to play, I know it’s 2 am and time to go home. But anyway, last night I saw my first drag queen, Electra. I do believe I have heard of her from Silvana. I wanted to ask for a picture with her, but she was very busy and very popular, so I snapped an action shot instead.

Drag Queen Electra being lifted up over the crowd

At 4 am Mariano Balcarce, AKA DJ Balca AKA El Cochino is hard at work
Ezequiel (who friended me today, and whose relationship status is “es complicado”) told me that the transvestites would love it if I took pictures with them. I just have to be nice and ask politely. Shouldn’t even offer to pay them. They’ll love the attention, especially from a blonde American girl. I want to take pictures with them for my birthday. Outside Crobar. But I imagine I’ll be working at Sugar the Saturday before. I made sure Con would play The Beatles’ birthday song at midnight for me. I figure any other “celebration” at a bar or club would be just with Jenny and Annemarie, maybe Damian. I’ve been bad at keeping up with the few others who are left here, and they’re all so busy in the real world with real jobs. Might as well celebrate with my new bar coworker friends and make some money while I’m at it. Have a fancy dinner at Piegari later. Twenty three seems like a good year for a wine-and-dine birthday. And of course Olsen brunch the day of. Invite Conrad, Gillea, Sara, Warner, Michael, Mark, etc. And Jenny, Annemarie, Damian, Silvana and Juan Jo… Anyway, Ezequiel said he used to skate around the park where the transvestites work, and since they get there around 8 pm, he knows a few of them. Odd. Matt at the bar told me my Ezequiel was not the Mexican Ezequiel. I didn’t think so. Unless he was lying to me. But apparently on Monday night while I was with Ezequiel, Matt was on a date with Ezequiel’s cousin and she cleared things up. A cute British girl with an upturned nose was asking about my Ezequiel. “Where does he live?” she demanded. I don’t know, I didn’t go home with him. We shared a few distinguishing details (scar above the right eye, works at Verizon) and determined mine was not one of the two Ezequiels she had dated. Neither was Jenny’s Ezequiel from Museum back in March. So many Ezequiels in this city. How bizarre. Left Rumi around 4:30 am or so. Looked for Leandro to say thanks and goodbye. He was waiting by the door in his sweater and hoodie. “I have to go,” he told me in English. Poor thing has got to work in the morning. He leaves with Braces Bad English who gave me a piece of gum an hour before. Best Bel-Dent I’d had. And there was also “I want to kiss you” Argentine snowboard instructor moving to Aspen. I never quite caught his name and he wandered off after telling me, “You are the prettiest girl in this club. I think you know. My words in English cannot describe.” I wanted to tell him, “Well then, tell me in Spanish,” but I didn’t want to sound conceited. And there were also the Argentine and Brazilian boys. I thought it best to leave when we did though, because the dance floor was clearing out and I didn’t want one to think they were going home with us. So we flagged down a cab and had them drop us off. I wonder if soon we will just tell the cabbies “la esquina de Starbucks, por favor.”

Are Your Legs Tired? Because You've Been Running Around My Mind All Night.

This is how you say it in Spanish: Si te despertaste mareada no te preocupas es que estuviste dando vueltas en mi cabeza toda la noche…

-- Courtesy of Juan Pablo, whom I met at the bar and now claims is my new Spanish teacher. Thanks buddy, but I have enough "Spanish teachers" as is. I could always use friends though. Remind me again why I gave you my real number? (Oh yeah, maybe so I could record lame/cheesy/awesome pick up lines like that one.)

Two Dates Down, One To Go

But I don’t know if I’ll be going on the other one. I only have Jamaica’s email, and if Annemarie’s not coming, I don’t want to go. I love Taco Tuesday, but three weeks in a row is a lot. And I ate Mexican food yesterday at El Salto de las Ranas. (When we found out they delivered, my life was complete. I have yet to have a delivery day here in Buenos Aires. You can get everything delivered. Even ice cream. They pack it in dry ice.) Anyway, tonight is Rumi Gay Night and the return of DJ Balca. Leandro is supposed to get us in for free, but I haven’t spoken to him today. I should get on it. But I have felt so overwhelmed today. Not quite caught up from the weekend. Or the super-long date with Ezequiel. Andres texted me at 12:45 pm saying he just woke up and can we do lunch later. Sure. When is later? After a while I assume later is another day. Nope, it is today. It means as soon as the waiter brings me my coffee. I can’t do it. Give me thirty minutes. I need my alone time. So he takes a cab from wherever he is to my neighborhood. I assume he will call when he’s there, so I head upstairs and email and take care of a few things. Eventually I text him, “You lost?” Nope, he has been waiting for me at the Pizza Donna corner. But he never called. How was I supposed to know? So we get on the D Line and miss our stop, cross over and go back only one stop, only to realize we should’ve taken Palermo instead. We end up walking quite a bit. “Oh, this is my neighborhood,” he tells me. He lives on Juan B. Justo and Santa Fe, right by the Palermo stop. He doesn’t know his neighborhood vegetarian restaurants very well… When we get there, I watch him read the menu with a look that reflects both intrigue and disgust. We split the couscous to start, he orders some sort of Indian rice, and I get the quinoa risotto con verduras del estación y lamidas de queso de cabra. Fabulous. I should’ve ordered that the last time. I had been debating. It was superb. I do think he enjoyed his food though. So we talk cinema (he’s an animator and screenplay writer) and Paris (he studied film there) and swap bar stories. He fills me in on Matt and Con, since he lives with them. They’re a total mess. But fun. They opened Sugar Barcelona and a hostel in Guatemala before opening Sugar Buenos Aires. I am still rattled a bit. Perhaps still tired from my dinner date with Ezequiel but more likely just not caught up from the weekend. But Andres had a late night too so we are both in a slightly confused state. The vegetarian food did make me feel whole again, but now I am just tired. And tonight is Jenny’s and my big night out: drinks at Sugar and then dancing at Rumi. I’m skipping tacos in favor of 2 for 1 ice cream at Il Diverso with Jenny. Then maybe a sandwich at 10 pm.

But anyway, on my way home from Palermo I run into Kristin, the Austinite bartender and her study abroad friend Jenn. “Oh, a blonde I know!” She says to me as she passes me on the street. We chat for a bit and they invited me for some licuados, which are like fruit smoothies but juicier. I figure I just had a free lunch so I can spring for some juice. So we step into Avila, this tennis-themed kiosko/empanada café I always mean to try but never do. And we chat. About the bar about college about a lot. I tell her I had just gotten back from lunch with Andres and I let him pay, and I have no qualms about it. “Oh, if they invite you, they pay.” “Good because Ezequiel paid last night too.” “Oh the Mexican?” All three of us agree that he is nice but very boring. I like Kristin a lot. And her friend Jenn, who comments on how Christian my name sounds. She’s Jewish. Jews can’t name a child after a living relative. Well, my family would be screwed.

So now I am resting up and just hope my next day won’t be quite so frazzled. I was barely able to do simple math when figuring the tip. Kristin was practically laughing at me. So tomorrow I plan on sleeping in, grabbing desayuno completo at Café B&B, buying a few groceries. (I really need vegetables, but they all look so sad in the store.) Might make a San Telmo day with Annemarie, window shop Calle Defensa (then shoe shop and purse shop,) grab some coffee at a bar notable… Could be nice.

To Do List Revamped

NIGHT
o Watch the tango at a milonga
--- Catedral
--- El Beso Nightclub
--- El Niño Bien
--- Lo de Celia
o Dance with gay men at Amerika
o Drinks at Milion
o Scout Drag Queens at Kim y Novak
o Dance the night away at Kika
o Grab drinks at Niceto Club for hipsters, local bands, and late-night trance DJs
o Drink cheap drinks at Gilbraltar, then head over to Museum for After Office

DAY
X Explore the Decorative Arts Museum (and eat at Croque Madame)
o Visit Palacio Barolo (Dante-inspired building)
X Check out the Madres’ Museum (and buy Che Guevara book in Spanish)
o Go to an asado (this would of course require an invitation or new cooking skills)
o Volunteer with ACORN
o Take pictures in La Boca
o Wander around Bosque Palermo
X Shop in Patio Bullrich
o View the murals at Galerias Pacificos
X Sip on tea at Las Violetas, a 123 year old French Café and tea service
o Go to a sporting event: polo (_), rugby (_), futbol(X), field hockey (_), etc.
o Daytrip to Colonia
o Multi-day trip to Iguazu Falls

EAT
o Piegari
o Bar Uriarte (dinner or weekend brunch)
o Standard
o Olsen (for dinner)
o Peruvian food
--- Contigo Peru
--- Primavera Trujillana
o Namaskar for Indian/Vegetarian food + it’s BYOB
o TGI Friday’s Happy Hour

PLAY: clubs, parks, shopping, museums …

REPEAT
food
X Bio
o Frida Kahlo
o Il Celetto
o Meridiano 58
X Shoeless Joe’s Alamo
o Olsen (for Sunday brunch)
clubs & bars
o Crobar
o Rumi

+COMBINATION
X Recoleta: Drink coffee at La Biela + Bellas Artes, design center, and/or Recoleta Cemetery
o Palermo: Eat lunch at Café MALBA, then hit up the new exhibit (after June 2)
o San Telmo: Explore Manzana las Luces, then check out one of the bares notables (i.e. Bar El Federal) for lunch/snack/coffee. If on a Sunday, check out the market for artwork.

COFFEE
o Pizza Donna
o Café Rubin
o Balcarce
X Luly Café
o Starbucks (open 30 May)
o Café La Esquina
o Café B & B
o McCafé (McDonald's coffee)

Luly Café

I've gotten really creative with layering clothing. I don't want to have to buy anything here. I told Annemarie earlier that sometimes I feel like I live in a Charlotte Russe: yeah, sometimes you can find cute things, and they're inexpensive by American standards, but in reality, it's all just cheap. And I'm not in middle school anymore. So I'm sitting at this café I passed on my abbreviated jog -- after all, I did walk home and didn't sleep until well after 2 am. So this place has a promotion of a small coffee and a torta for only $7 pesos. So I take it. Starbuck's is open to the public on Friday. It looks open now, people are inside it and the tables on the patio are all set up with squat vases of floating daisies, but there is a guard outside blocking entrance. So I finally asked him. After weeks of jogging by to see progress I am now dying to go. On opening day. With all the crazy Argentines that will wait in line for hours and either find it is not as good as what they have, or think it is amazing because it is American and expensive. We shall see. I just want to be there when it happens. I think I should add a coffee section to my to-do list...

Andres just called. He wants to pick me up now. No, my coffee just arrived. I didn't know if your text message meant "later today" or "later some other day," so I just sat down with my coffee and my journal and my dry coconut and dulce de leche pastry and I am going to enjoy it. But not really, the ambiance here is dingy at best and I am flustered. Just one of those days. Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day; Meg the pseudo-Argentine and the Flustery Day. My brain doesn't work; I haven't caught up from the weekend.

Clarence Fabrics

I used to pass by this sign all the time, when I lived in Recoleta, and I always thought of my dad (and my brother, and my grandfather, and my great-grandfather.) So today when I passed by it on the way to (a now defunct?) Shoeless Joe's Alamo, I took a picture. It's a fabric store, mainly for upholstering furniture.

Recoleta Day + Ezequiel

Monday, 1:46 pm
I’m starting to think Café La Biela is a bit overrated. And judging by the amount of English spoken and guidebooks I see out of tables, a bit of a tourist trap. But it was on my list and I’m checking it off. Thanks, Frommer’s, I find you less and less reliable. I’m starving after my run and the hike out to get here, so I ordered a masa vienesa de ricotta. We’ll see how it goes. I doubt I’ll stay here too long. Just long enough to keep my self up-to-date on life’s goings on. And enjoy my coffee, of course. He poured it darker than blonde for me. I’m sitting outside – it has warmed up somehow – because what they don’t often tell you about these bares notables is that they usually look like the inside of your grandmother’s dated country club. Or chotzke-laden TGI Friday’s. Seriously, I considered grabbing my coffee at Aroma when I saw the interior, but the price of a café con leche is actually more at the chain restaurant, so I stuck with my intended plan. Andres did end up texting me around 12:30. He still wants to take me to Bio. I told him I had already made plans because I didn’t think he was serious but would tomorrow work? Tomorrow it is. And tonight I am doing something with Ezequiel because he “insists” after I opted to stay in last night. And Jamaican guy Sherwin e-mailed me about drinks or something. I offered up Taco Tuesday. I find it all a bit overwhelming, but Annemarie says I should just enjoy it (using good judgment of course.) This would never happen in The States. What’s one date? But after my experience in the subte with Mr. Pockets, I kind of want to eat every dessert in the city just so boys will leave me alone. But then I realize that’s a lot of dessert (read: calories) and I only have a month left. I don’t want to return home with severe weight gain and significantly damaged health. So today is set: coffee at La Biela, already went for a run, showered, and dropped off a load of whites at the lavandería, next I’m going to meander the upper floors of Bellas Artes, then meet up with Jenny and hopefully Annemarie for ladies’ lunch at Alamo. So now I get the check, go to the museum, call the girls so they can make their way over here, eat a late porteña lunch at an ex-pat bar, then try to find that silver something at the store by my locutorio. I’ve given up on finding art. Una sorpresa para ella. Less to write about than I thought. And I haven’t opened my book in a while. Oh, and La Biela is a café with an 1850s car-racing theme. Right up my alley, huh? NASCAR and all…

Now
Well, today’s plan did not work out as I had thought. La Biela was a disappointment, and I’ll admit, Annemarie had tried to warn me. But sometimes I just have to find things out for myself. And then I went over to Bellas Artes, and of course it was closed on a Monday. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that. I might end up leaving this town without seeing the entire museum, but a trek out to Recoleta takes up a full day, and I don’t know what else I need to do there in the daytime. So I wandered around, sat in a park to pencil in all these dates I seem to be having, texted Leandro about tomorrow’s Rumi Gay Night and he says of course he will be there since he and Balca are such good friends. I invited him to Sugar for drinks before. He says we’ll arrange it all tomorrow. So around 3:30 Jenny and Annemarie arrive in Recoleta. I meet Annemarie on the street and Jenny is outside Alamo. It is closed. By the city health department. Does this mean for good? Looks like Jenny won’t get to have her barbecue pizza. I don’t remember the food being all that great, just cheap. But we decide to eat at Salto de las Ranas (literally, "Jumping of the Frogs,") a sister restaurant to Maria Felix on Rodriguez Peña. I ordered the vegetable fajitas and they were divine. On the way over there, of course I run into Carlos, ex-neighbor Pedro’s friend and my coffee date from couple of months ago. He was very friendly, met the girls, and we go on our way. Then Andres texts me: “do u want 2 c indiana jones 2night around 8?” I tell him I think I have dinner plans with a friend, but thanks. Since Ezequiel “insisted” and all. For a moment I consider throwing my phone in the garbage. So after finishing her bean and cheese tacos, Jenny heads home to study for exams and I walk over to Patio Bullrich to help Annemarie find a winter coat. But first we walk down her old street to talk to her old doorman, Angel. He is a very sweet man and immediately recognizes Annemarie. He’s learning English and studies reflexology. He says the new exchange students are not nearly as friendly. He warns us not to spend too much money at Patio Bullrich.

Angel & Annemarie

When we are at Zara, Annemarie finds a red wool coat. We joke that together with my yellow and her red we look like ketchup and mustard. "Salsa Golf!" Annemarie exclaims, but we realize salsa golf is more like ketchup and mustard. "We can be peppy-patty sauce," I tell her, explaining my mom's famed condiment from high school home-ec. We grab coffee at Francesco’s. She barely has to ask me if I want it. They serve it with a coconut-dulce de leche square. It is heavenly, and worth the 9 pesos. I found out there's one in Alto Palermo. I spy trouble.

I get a text message from Ezequiel. It is almost 7:30 pm and he says he could do something at 8:15; do I want him to pick me up? I tell him “I am at coffee with my cousin, can I meet you somewhere at nine?” because I don’t think I want him coming up and I still need to change clothes. He suggests Plaza Armenia, the park over by Sugar, by the fountain. As I get there it is raining, and we realize a lot of places are closed on Monday. But he takes me to Antares, a brewery where I ate a fabulous salmon and sun-dried tomato salad and we drank a bottle of Cabernet. I find it funny to order wine at a microbrewery, but I prefer wine anyway, so whatever. He orders steak. He is nice and we speak entirely in English. He tells me about working for Verizon, and previously IBM. He likes my yellow coat. He was in a serious car wreck and never finished college because he was in the hospital during his final exams. When you cause a serious wreck in Argentina, your license is taken away. He can’t drive for another four years. He prefers Boca Juniors over River Plate. He used to be quite the golfer. His mom is a dermatologist. He plays the keyboard in a band with his older brother. His other brother is married and has a daughter around Woody’s age. His dad died of lung cancer. He offices in Puerto Madero, and he hates Microcentro. One time he slept for a solid 26 hours. He still lives with his mother. (Which is normal here.) He doesn’t understand the concept of American Halloween, and would like to be there for it some year. I tell him it’s a lot more fun when you’re a kid. He tells me about Christmas in Buenos Aires: at midnight on Christmas Eve, you open your presents then around 2 am you go out and party in the boliches. On Christmas Day, you sleep in and have lunch with your family. Children think Santa Claus comes when the glasses clink at midnight. We stay until about 12:30 am, and then he walks me home. When we reach my door I tell him thank you for dinner and for walking me home, and I kiss him on the cheek. Not sure if that’s what he wanted to hear, but he says he’ll see me on Friday at Sugar. He really is a nice guy. But that's about it.

Revolution Day

Pretty much every morning when my alarm goes off (I no longer set an alarm on Saturdays or Sundays for obvious reasons,) I have to convince myself that I am just getting out of bed for e-mails and breakfast, and that I don't have to run for another 45 minutes or so. Especially on days when I have no set plans and there's no construction noise coming from the streets. Like today. But I made it up, only pushing snooze two times. I think I might've jammed my big toe at the bar one night. Might put a damper on my jog.

I was supposed to be back home by now. Doing what, I don't know. But I'm still here. Doing what, I'm still not sure. But on the weekends I work for a pair of Brits at their bar in Palermo, and tonight I've apparently got a date with Ezequiel. He wanted to go out last night, but I was running on three hours of sleep and an espresso from Havanna, so I asked to postpone. I wouldn't have been to pleasant, I imagine. He said that's find, but he "insists" on Monday. Well then, insist away, let's just get this over with. That's not fair, he's a very nice guy. Maybe he can show me a side of Buenos Aires I would never know without the aid of a local. Then again, we do spend a lot of time with Damian. And Tuesday night I told Jamaican guy, Sherwin, that I would meet him for Taco Tuesday. It's not jerk chicken, but in the land of bland, spicy is spicy. It will have to be an early dinner, because I told Jenny I want to go to Rumi Gay Night for DJ Balca's return. Since we're bad at making it out with such a late start, I told her I'd take her to Sugar for happy hour. On a Tuesday night we should be able to get a mojito, no problem.

Holidays here are always a family affair, usually spent at home with plenty of company, leaving us Americans with not much to do. So yesterday we celebrated Revolution Day by lounging around inside away from the cold and grabbing an early (7:30 pm, practically the early bird special) dinner at La Pharmacie. La Pharmacie is on Charcas along my jogging route (and also along my walk to work route. Which, assuming I walk to and from, cancels the need to run on Saturdays and Sundays) and I had been meaning to try it for coffee or something. Its interior was surprisingly pleasant. I wanted to sample their locro criollo, since it was the cheapest one I'd seen advertised in a restaurant window and I wasn't sure if I liked it. Jenny and I figured we'd split one and order a pizza. So we order a spinach pizza with salsa bechamel. Jenny hates spinach, but has a newfound love for French white sauce after eating at Croque Madame. (She pronounces it "BEK-uh-muhl" sauce, not even how you'd say it in a Spanish accent. She has no concept of French and I think she's been studying Portuguese for too long.) When the server comes by, Jenny takes charge as usual and orders us una pizza crema de espinaca, un choclo criollo, y agua sin gas. I didn't catch her mistake, and should've when the waiter asked us "¿dos chopp?" "No two bottles of water," we tell him. Isn't the word chopp usually reserved for beer? (Answer: yes.) She had meant to order the national Revolution Day dish, but instead ordered "choclo" which is corn. He must've misheard us and thought we meant to say "chopp" so he brought out two glasses of beer. "Maybe it's because we ordered a pizza?" Jenny muses. "Maybe it's because it's a holiday?" I think. No no. It's because we completely misordered and I was too tired to notice. So we sipped our beers, munching on a little plate of salted peanuts and potato chips, split the pizza and skipped out on any locro. To be honest, I didn't see any of the locals eating it either. And since I am so fed up with boys and want to eat every dessert in town so they'll leave me alone, and because it is a national holiday, we split dessert. Mil hojas, sometimes also known as "rogel," is flaky pastry dough layered with dulce de leche; this one was topped with chocolate. By the time I finished, I felt like I could fall asleep at the table.

Jamaica Mon

I spoke too soon. Now my Jamaican subte friend is e-mailing me for drinks later.

When it rains, it pours; and I need to buy an umbrella.

Boys

Boy, when it rains it pours. Got a new text message, assumed it was from Ezequiel. Turns out it was not one message but two. One from Juan Pablo, a (Peruvian, I believe) guy from the bar that wanted to help me with my Spanish, and another from Martin. I thought Martin was long-gone... And I kind of wish he were.

A Hard Day's Night, Part 2

Back at Café Havanna today. Today is a national holiday, I thought it was Independence Day, but apparently it’s Día de la Revolución, or Revolution Day. It’s cold today and all I’ve heard that you do to celebrate is eat lochro criollo, so perhaps I’ll eat that for dinner. I got home around 8:15 am, just as Jenny was getting dressed for church. Last night “A Hard Day’s Night” played at least three times and I felt the weight of the lyrics in my feet. But I make it a habit not to know the time while I’m working. As long as it’s busy, I can manage. It was Jamie’s birthday. Or still is, I suppose. She hopped over to bartend when things were busy, then pulled me up to dance on the bar with her when things slowed down. Dancing on the bar is a lot more fun than cleaning up empty glasses and being made fun of by porteños for always asking “¿Todo bien?” Ezequiel came back, as promised in his text message, and wants to take me out today. I suppose it wouldn’t be bad, but what has he got to offer? He speaks English (so I can’t use him as an opportunity to practice my Spanish) and, as Matt said, “He’s got no game.” It’s true. He’s kind of lame. Matt used to date his cousin, that’s why he hangs around.

When I got to work, Andres asked me, “How’s our star waitress?” I told him I could use some coffee. Paula was already helping a table in the back. I was basically assigned the front territory. “If that’s how you want to do it,” Paula told me. “No, that’s how I want it,” Con told her. Mid-fifty year old Recoleta types ordered gin & tonics and Irish coffees by the window during happy hour. They wanted something to snack on, peanuts? bread? Pero no hay. Later on we had pochoclo, popcorn, to offer; but they were gone. A French lady really got a kick out of practicing her English with me. She spoke Spanish though, too, so we were able to communicate. I wish I knew French. And some Michigan kids, I swear, thought they were ordering from a full-blooded Argentine when they spoke to me. Even though I was code switching and would confirm their orders in English. "Kwah-troh peen-tahs." "You want four pints of Quilmes?" I finally told them I was from Texas. They've been in Buenos Aires twice as long as I have, but I don't think their Spanish is quite up to par.

I think Buenos Aires’ smoke has cut my contact lenses’ lives in half. They cloud up and stick to my eyes in a week’s wear. I’m not sure if I can do locro criollo tonight. It’s like a stew from northern Argentina. I think I sampled it with Pedro at El Sanjuanino, the restaurant that everyone says reminds them of Salta. I don’t know Salta, and if it’s really like the restaurant, I don’t know if I want to go. I want breakfast food. Eggs. Migas from Angela’s. In a month or so (after I’ve left the southern hemisphere,) Sugar is opening a restaurant portion with breakfast options. Bacon and eggs. Real maple syrup from Canada.

My body is tired. Legs aching, arms sore. Yesterday’s River game was fun, but I didn’t realize what a production it would be. An all day affair. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to help Juan Jo, especially in exchange for free tickets. He says I need to come back in October for the River-Boca game. (Voted one of the 50 Sporting Events You Must See Before You Die.) Maybe some day…

The ex-pats last night were snobby. And for people who have chosen to transition to life in Buenos Aires, they spoke very little Spanish. I overheard someone say recently that ex-pats in Buenos Aires tend to have the most complaints (as opposed to ex-pats in other countries, I imagine.) I was thinking I should keep an ongoing list of things I’m going to miss:

1. café con leche
2. Finlandia queso crema (much better than Philadelphia cream cheese)
3. staying out until 7 am
4. cheesy pick up lines in bars and cat-calls in the streets by Latin men
5. Rollinga fashion statements
6. public transportation
7. walking everywhere
8. slow service in cafes
9. the 3:1 ratio
10. empanadas de cebolla y queso
11. speaking Castellano as opposed to Español

Things I will not miss:

1. jamón
2. hard-boiled eggs
3. bank fees

I suppose in a way I might even miss lines, so I don't dare add "inefficiency" to any list.

I need a nap. And food. I don't know what there is to do today: Sunday and a national holiday. Damian wanted brunch, but when I e-mailed Annemarie this morning she said, "Don't hold your breath." But now I want brunch. And Olsen potatoes. I can fix myself Brie and apples with green tea. Or toast with cream cheese and raspberry jam. These are the groceries I have: green tea, Cajun seasoning, red pepper flakes, vegetable broth bouillon cubes, psyllium husks, peanut butter, low-carb dulce de leche, sesame crackers, wheat crackers, All-Bran cereal, green bananas, two fat apples, Brie, cream cheese, two eggs, Sancor Bio drinkable yogurts, Activia mueslix yogurts, raspberry jam, celery stalks, wheat bread, hummus, and Babba Ganoush. I kind of want an empanada. But I made myself a new delicacy: burnt toast with Brie and melted raspberry preserves. I told myself I'd go to La Pharmacie today for lochro criollo. It's only $18, the cheapest price I've seen posted. If it's bad, I'll get an empanada maybe. It's been a while since I've had one of those. And it's still National Pizza and Empanada Week. Now that I'm rolling in dough, I feel like I can spend it. And by "rolling in dough," I mean I've made $227 pesos this week. But I figure I've saved $6 USD in ATM fees, at least for a week or so, and I've saved the money I would've spent going out: cabs, cover (which I rarely have to pay, thanks to my PR buddies,) and drinks. It's a good deal. And I like the people I work with. Kristen and I bonded over popcorn in the kitchen, and she'd try to mix us drinks on the sly because it was too busy to even pour yourself a cocktail. And Jamie's great, obviously. Mallory's fun. And Andres is great too. Nice guy. Matt said the reason he called was to make sure I wasn't with him, and that he'd tell him we were making out in McDonald's (which did not happen.) I suppose boys will be boys. Even if they're 43.