Happy Mother's Day!

Today would’ve been a beautiful day for a polo tournament, but I never heard back from Leandro. Oh well, I suppose there will be another time. He had a birthday party in Once (“Do you know it?” “No.” “It’s okay, it’s not a very good part of town.”) so we never met up at Crobar. Or Piano Bar. Whatever you want to call it. But Alejandro Chasco was nice enough to let us in, no problem. Whenever I want, Fridays and Saturdays. Or Thursdays at Lost. I danced with a boy named Franco last night. He stopped me to say my eyes were beautiful; that he would sleep with his eyes open so he could stare at me all night long. I think he meant it in a romantic way, although it came out somewhat creepy. He was the annoying kind of dancer who spins you around all the time, but he was sweet. Kept kissing my hand and calling me princesa. And he had a friend for Jenny to dance with, so she was happy. If anything, I guess it was just nice to be back in the clubs after such a long hiatus and then have someone immediately hit on me. Latin men can be the biggest ego boosters.
I looked very Argentine last night: debuted my teal A.Y. Not Dead so-skinny-they’re-practically-tapered leg jeans (I'm no longer feeling buyer's remorse about that purchase) with my A.B.S. babydoll ¾ sleeve black shirt and Chilean black and white scarf that everyone wears here. (They sell them here too, but mine was only $2 USD and the ones I see in Argentine stores are upwards of $80 pesos.) If only I had some Chuck Taylor’s to wear, but I can’t bring myself to wear sneakers to a club, so I wore my pewter flats – so glad I had Deno repair the soles before I left!
But Franco was nice, even though he kept spinning me around and flailing his arms on a packed dance floor. In retrospect, he was an awful dancer. But he would ask me questions like, “Do you like to drink mate tea?” (I don’t know how.) and “Do you play any sports?” (I told him “el balet,” easier than saying no, none,) so I found him somewhat endearing. Eventually I check my phone for the time, because at 4:30 am they open the VIP “El Punto” section up to the regular Crobar part, and I have only been to El VIP here. I see a missed text message from Alejandro, whom I have still never met and would like to thank in person. This allows me and Jenny to escape the terrible dancing duo, so we ditch the boys. Meet Alejandro, he’s as nice as can be, but I don’t think ever said a word to Jenny who’s probably staring into the crowd and dancing quietly to herself, wiggling her shoulders and hips in unison. Then Alejandro leaves after telling us he was glad we liked the party and to ask for him anytime. Te mando un beso.
So then he leaves, and Franco asks for my number. I have my phone in hand and I’m afraid he might call to verify I gave him the right number, so I give him what I believe to be the correct digits. But he forgets my name. TWICE. So I tell him it’s Megan. Then a short Indian-looking dude comes up to me and grumbles that there are so many extranjeros here. Um, I’m an extranjera. (I told you I was dressed very Argentine.) He’s a foreigner as well though. Chilean. From Viña del Mar. I know Viña del Mar! He asks for my number so we can grab a drink or some coffee; I give him a fake and we go on our merry ways. He was too short. But he was right about the extranjeros. In the girls’ bathroom I hear more English than Spanish. There’s a group from Wales and a chick from Norway. It’s a small world after all.

But since there was no luck finding a way out to the polo fields, I spent my day reading, flopping, and self-diagnosing my illnesses via MayoClinic.com. They told me to eat bananas and yogurt and drink plenty of liquids and broths to reestablish the hydration I’m losing. So I went to the grocery store, at some yogurt, and got back in bed. I can feel my hands are almost rough from the inside out; I lavish lotion on them, but it won’t soak in. So right now I’m sipping vegetable broth from a bouillon cube which tastes pretty much like Ramen noodles without the noodles, so it’s not a bad deal. Just caught up with Mom on Instant Messenger so it sounds like all is well in Dallas.

It seems there is another round of protests about el campo, because my entire neighborhood has erupted into the familiar sounds of honking cars and banging casserole dishes.

Happy Mothers’ Day to all of the mothers I love!