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.