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.