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.”