Argentina Diaries: Day 8

Of course Hav had already packed and of course I had not. He left to get us some coffee while I masterfully pushed, squeezed, and cajoled my purchases into an already crowded suitcase. We finally got breakfast at a restaurant on Santa Fe where we were its youngest patrons by at least three decades. I took this as a good sign. I really just wanted a breakfast taco and tried to order it in a roundabout way, but either my Spanish or the meaning for 'tortilla' differed. We ended up with a potato, egg, and cheese frittata, which was fine by me. (Post-note: I recently learned that 'tortilla' in Spain and Argentina is what we call 'frittata'.)

After breakfast (by this time, brunch), we walked through Las Canitas and Palermo in search of a notably chic jewelry store that's open daily but by appointment. "I just want to look in the window," I told Hav, "then decide if I want to call." Unfortunately, it seems the reason reservations are required is because there are no windows. We continued walking to Malba, a privately funded modern art museum.

I don't know how to describe nature, much less art, so I'm happy to read a quote in Malba's program from Oscar Buny, an artist whose work was there on exhibit:

I don't believe that art can be explained, deep down, what it leaves behind is always an unknown.

His work filled the third (or in Argentina, the second) floor. Much of his photography pieces captured death removed. For example, he frequently took pictures of men flopped on pavement. He overlaid the photograph with a piece of Plexiglas sprayed with bullet holes. I'm not sure I got the meaning, exactly, but I liked looking at the pictures. I stopped abruptly in front of a comparative piece. On the left was a prophetic portrait of the Twin Towers he'd done in 1996. Each tower had a bullet hole in it. On the right, at least ten times the size of its counterpart, was the ubiquitous, fateful 9/11 image of Tower One being blown up and the plane heading for Tower Two. The piece was titled, Osama 2001. I felt hollow and confused. I'm not an especially ethnocentric or patriotic kinda girl so reaction to these reminders of 9/11 have surprised me. Maybe it's being in a foreign country?

We left the museum, turned the corner, and went to what's billed as "Buenos Aires' Greatest Mall", which turned out to be a little bit like getting a massage and then helping someone move. I can report that malls are vacuous anywhere in the world. We left quickly.

Walking back to Palermo Viejo Hav and I had an awkward conversation about expectations and well, hooking up, or not, as it were. We remain in this hybrid, amorphous state in part because of our shared reluctance to pull out the magnifying glass when it comes to Us. I had questions but lacked the energy to probe. This trip has been a sublime experience and no one wants to look at the clock on vacation.

At 5 we returned to the apartment to wait for Cristina. We had packed our belongings and in the last hour before the airport we talked about what a great trip we'd had and how we should have taken Spanish lessons when we arrived. Oh well, next time we'll be prepared. Cristina came with a friend? Housecleaner? I had written her a note to say that I tried to wash the sheets but the upstairs door to the laundry was locked. (I always had to prepare in advance what I wanted to say.)

She took us through a checklist of questions, an "inquisition" we told her, when she asked for a word to describe the process of asking what we'd used or broken. Technically, inquisition missed the mark, but I couldn't think of a nice and tidy alternate. And then we spent the next hour with her teaching me Spanish and me teaching her English. She told me that when I return to BA (something in me blurted out "proximo ano" - huh?!) I'd have to stay with her at her house. She has a garden and a bathroom and bedrooms. We talked about the new president and Hilary Clinton and yes, Bush. We talked about everyday stuff really -- the way people who've just met speak, independent of barriers -- country, language, or otherwise. We exchanged addresses, a throwback practice that has a sincerity to it which escapes electronic mail.

She called a taxi for us. Eventually it came, and we were off. Our trip had a sense of completion to it. I didn't want for more time (save another day in Patagonia), yet I hope someday I'll return. I feel inspired to learn Spanish, and Italian, and French. My desire to live in a foreign country is renewed.

So that's it. My Argentina diaries as forthright as I know to be. At times journaling this seemed more chore than joy but more often it was the opposite. In fact, a typical scene would be sitting at a cafe waiting for our coffee or meal, and I'd pull out this notebook and start writing just after Scott got up to wash his hands or check something out. He'd return sooner than I expected and say "are you writing again, Vaness?" Yeah. I guess so.

It is the virtues, not the faults...which constitute one's true legacy. -- Gandhi

Argentina Diaries: Day 7

We woke at 8 on Saturday. I misspeak. *I* woke at 8, while by this time Hav had already (no joke) gone on a run, taken a sauna, and put a load of wash in. The fact that it's our last full day here settled in, so naturally we had to see the Recoleta cemetery. Who doesn't love dead people? El Cementino de la Recoleta is where Eva Peron (Evita) is buried. The cemetery is also conveniently located in BA's fabled upscale shipping district. Ah hellz yeah.

We started our morning at Mark's, which is a café I've read about in both Time Out and Lonely Planet. Hav also went there the day before while I practiced yoga. May I tell you, the coffee es que bien, which is a fact that every tourist in Argentina must also know since we're surrounded by English speakers. A miraculously chatty South African and her 3 friends -- and by 'miraculous' I mean it's a miracle she had friends to travel with - I'm not sure the others got any words in -- sat down at a table behind us. As if it weren't obvious I'll go ahead and say it: I'm a snob. Six days earlier, barely able to order a coffee, I'd have killed to hear a little English. Yet now, nearing the end of our journey, it rang like nails on a chalkboard -- a cacophonous reminder that soon all would return to normal and I'd be back working a lot, teaching often, and trying to fit all of my other interests in between the gaps. On our first Patagonia hike Hav observed that I like to be busy. I disagreed, explaining that I just have a lot of curiosity and little patience. But, is there a difference?

We finished our coffee and cabbed it to the cemetery. Outside of the cemetery in a public square, artisans set up their booths for what appeared to be an annual feria de navidad. More souvenir shopping. Havis got a skirt for his friend Emmy while I managed to ignore the hard-sell on a crystal composed of aquamarine and quartz. Oddly, I can say no to a $20 crystal but am powerless to thousands of dollars worth of facials.

As I write this, my mood is surly at best, which I'm certain will color my recollection, but I'll continue anyway. What follows is a complete description of BA's Recoleta Cemetery. I'd like to think I'm saving someone the free admission.

1. Walk in. See a bunch of Americans from Highland Park, loud and affected. They are wearing polos with up-turned collars, a trend that is neither ironic nor retro chic. It's just retarded.

2. Stroll through rows upon rows of cement and marble mausoleums. There's much ado about death.

3. Head left-wards to Sarmiento's grave, said to be the only president Borges ever respected. There's a playful impression of Pan inscribed with something in Spanish mounted on his tomb. This is cool and I took lots of pictures which didn't turn out.

4. From Sarmiento's grave, head to the right, then to the left, dodge the rave-ready guy in red jeans and high tops taking a suggestive photo of his heroin-thin girlfriend (points for sexing it up in a cemetery), then to the right again. Follow the smattering of fanny packs and you'll come upon the grave of Juan Duarte and Eva Peron. I have to say, it's surprisingly modest and non-descript, save for the flowers affixed to the cast-iron gate. Perhaps the populists' president intended it this way. Either that or someone wanted to save a few bucks.

And that's pretty much it, unless you happen to know Argentine history. In which case you might find it more interesting than I did. Personally, my money's with the Hollywood Forever cemetery where even the graves have plastic surgeons, or the pedantic's darling, Westminster Abbey, or perhaps Paris' Père Lachaise. I did, however, take a picture of a mausoleum enclosed by glass doors etched with skulls and crossbones and hearts. Punk rock death is cool.

Outside of the cemetery is the BA Design Center, which is a mall mostly filled with home interior and artisan stores. If I lived in BA, I'd probably have been more interested in its wares, but since I don't, shopping felt unrealistic. From there we strolled past another huge mall with a Futball restaurant, a McDonald's, a movie theatre, and a honey pot of more Americans. We discussed seeing a movie -- 4 Mesas, 3 Semanas, 4 Dais, until we realized it wouldn't have English subtitles.

I need to work this out. Christ, I AM an American. So why do I feel so separated from a fair number of the ones we've encountered? Am I different? Does it count that I'm at least aware of my own hypocrisy? That I'm annoyed by their apparent lack of subtlety leads me to think this is really about my own need to belong, maybe? In the end, whatever. Pop-psychology is boring and life is much easier without mock introspection.

Anyway, Recoleta got old, fast. It's a little sterile. (Later I tried to translate this to Cristina (the apartment owner) using my Spanish dictionary. She laughed and told me only people can be "steril". Oops. I tried to exchange the word "pristine", but the dictionary failed to cooperate.) So we hopped a cab back to Palermo Viejo. The driver told us as we were departing that La Boca would be playing Milano tomorrow for the championship. Sweet, sweet man. One of the lone disappointments Hav and I have (and for your reading enjoyment, I'll recap my highs and lows when I'm finished journaling the trip) is that we couldn't see a La Boca soccer match. During early December the A team takes a break while the second string plays in foreign countries. Regrettably we scheduled the bulk of our trip during this hiatus.

I understood (incorrectly) the man to say that the game was at 5:30 p.m. Hav and I discussed postponing our trip and getting tickets. In retrospect, it would have been really funny to explain to my boss that I'd be late returning because we were staying to watch La Boca. Especially since it turns out that they played at 7:30 in the morning. In Milan. I'll finish this aside with a mention that La Boca lost 4 - 2.

In the comfort of our rented neighborhood, we delighted in our choice of potential barrios. Palermo Viejo, with its ample dog shit and graffiti, still had a vibrant charm of its own. I'm embarrassed to admit we went shopping AGAIN, but I swear it's the pressure of finding gifts for Christmas and not how we are normally. Mostly.

Tekal is a small fine chocolates store. You could fit the entire store inside an airplane bathroom. A queue had formed inside and at the front of the line was a woman haggling. Who does that?! Is that normal and acceptable in stores here? Could I have argued that I would pay $20 -- that's my final offer! -- for my precious gold sandals? Or maybe you can only bargain when you're willing to walk away, in which case chocolate is an easy bet.

From Tekal, I drug Hav over to Elemento, an accessories store where earlier in the trip a cute, tan satchel caught my eye. I threw it over my shoulder and smiled. "What do you think?" I asked Hav. "No me gusto," he answered flatly. Both the shop owner and I looked at each other in shock. "NO TE GUSTO," she asked incredulously? "Nope," he shook his head, "no me gusto." She went on to argue the quality of the leather and its bargain pricepoint to no avail. I used the out he inadvertently gave me and we walked out of the store.

Earlier in the day we let a message for Lorena, who's a friend of our friend Terry's. Terry said she was fluent in English and she'd show us a good time. Well hell, we always like good times. At 5:30 she returned our call but unfortunately she had made out of town plans for the night. She invited us to a dinner party for Sunday but we couldn't accept because we were scheduled to be in flight then. Instead we told her about a couple of parillas we were considering for dinner and she told us about two bars to hit afterward.

Don Julio's is a fantastic, traditional, family parilla. When we got there I was still full from my pizza lunch, so I ordered a salad for dinner which confounded the waiter. Hav's eyes were bigger than his stomach. He messed up - chorizo, a ribeye the size of a small country, potatoes, and a shared appetizer. The unfortunate thing about eating in a nice restaurant is that when you over-order, there's no dog around to bail you out. We did ask for a doggy bag, but it never came, which was just as well since we only asked for appearances.

It took us a while but we finally found the first of two bars Lorena suggested. Still ridiculously full from our meal, drinking sounded a miserable option. Dessert however, did not. We walked back to Freddo/Aroma (I can't believe we went to the chain 4 times!) and ordered our cafe con cremas.

That night I made the mistake of taking an Ambien so I could get a really full night's sleep. Every once in a while Ambien doesn't do the trick and instead I wake up the next day groggy and lethargic. And that's how Sunday began.

It is the virtues, not the faults...which constitute one's true legacy. -- Gandhi

Argentina Diaries: Day 3

On Monday, and now definitely older, we got up at a decent hour. Hav can handle one late rising per trip. He really likes to drink a location up. It's not that he does touristy stuff, he just likes to see -- to watch as much as possible. So we had massages scheduled at 10 a.m. in Barrio Norte. We wanted to arrive early to check out the other areas of town. Barrio Norte is a nicer, older, monied neighborhood to Palermo Viejo's young sassiness. Hav was kind enough to go out and get us coffee and mini-croissants (called medialunas) and we ate in the apartment.

We cabbed it over to Barrio Norte where our driver kindly explained (yay! we're learning!) that today was Argentina's new president, Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner's inauguration day. You see, I thought by the way the cabbie scoffed at us when we tried repeatedly to enter his cab by way of a tempermental door handle that he wrote us off as dumb tourists (I once had a cab driver in Las Vegas ask me if I was stupid, so my fear wasn't outside the realm of possibility). He turned out being really sweet and a slow speaker, the kind we wish we could have kept as our pocket translator.

We arrived at 10 at Aqua Naturale Medical Spa. Hav thought the word "medical" in the name couldn't be a good sign, but I reassured him -- *THE* NY Times called it one of BA's best. Indeed, we got inside and it was hardly sterile. A zen-ish oasis in the middle of a big, smoggy city. Let me say this though -- and it's not a complaint so much as an observation -- foreign standards of luxury are not the same as in the U.S. At home it would be unacceptable for a top spa to have water stains on walls or peeling calk or mildew in the showers or, ahem, Palmolive soap.

We pieced together that we had ordered a massage and a facial. Scott went with the masseuse first. My facialist and I spent an hour trying to teach each other Spanish and English. She had been learning since grade school. I did what I could to augment her studies. For example, when she told me I still have "water in my skin"; I explained that in English we say "moisture". Glad I could be of service. She taught me how to say "I'm trying" but I've since forgotten. I should have got her to tell me how to say "I've forgotten." I'm finished is "terminale," so you know. As a side note, I felt like I was cheating on my ridiculously expensive LA facialist. Would she be able to tell? I prayed that Maria wouldn't leave any tell-tale signs. We finished and she handed me off to the masseuse. Hav traded places. I wished we had switched -- he does not see the value of any aesthetic treatment that results in pain.

My massage felt good. I strained to relax though because the room was so cold. My yoga client / friend Nina would have asked them to turn up the heat. I, thinking of all the other guests and realizing that each room didn't have individual thermostats, simply resigned myself to being cold. I always do that. I should stop doing that.

We eventually met again in the waiting area and then they told us that we had a whirlpool waiting. For the two of us. We spent over 9 years together and yet our respective disrobing felt awkward and foreign. The aesthetician presented the whirlpool with pride but we were in no mood for hospitality. Three hours had passed since we first got there and we're tourists damnit! We had places to go. (Not really.) People to see! (Not really.)

Not 5 minutes into the 20 minutes they had scheduled for us, Hav says he's getting out. I felt bad -- like I was being a poor houseguest -- but not bad enough to wait the next 15 minutes out. In my attempt to turn the water off completely, somehow I managed instead to drain the water but turn on the jets. Havis was worried; his ample experience with hot tubs told him that jets - water = bad for whirlpool. Uh oh. He went to ask the front desk (in his robe) how to shut it off. In the 60 seconds he was gone, I succeeded in turning on some short of trick option where water began shooting in the air. Holy shit!

Water spilled over the edge of the whirlpool, on to the cedar steps, out the glass door, and down the hall. It was flooding the room (seem familiar?).

Havis returned -- "Oh my God Vanessa! What'd you do?!"
"I don't know! I was trying to turn it off! Get someone!"

And this is when every ounce of Spanish I've learned in the last few days, which had gotten us by barely or enough, promptly disappeared. A maid or maintenance person walked around the corner unsuspecting until she saw the commotion. Immediately she looked at Scott. I tried to tell her I did it but that wasn't really the point now. She deftly pushed a magic button that couldn't have been there before and all the jets, water, everything - turned off. Still the flood required attention. At this time the aesthetician, who had drawn the bath for us in the first place, walked around the corner. She spoke English earlier during my facial but I think her vocabularly is limited to the innoculous. May it stay that way.

"Mi disculpa!" I pleaded. She started asking me questions in Spanish. "No entiendo" I answered, which, directly translated means "I don't understand", but as I used it, "Jesus help me!"

"I am sorry," she answered. "We'll have it ready for you again in 9 minutes."
Uh oh. They wanted us to get back in.
"Uhh, that's okay. We were getting out."
"No, no. 9 minutes."
"No, no. Terminale," I answered.

This seemed to sting. This was a word she had taught me earlier. Hav and I cowered back to the changing rooms. I had planned to shower before leaving because I hate having the grease of massage oil on me but I could no longer show my face.

I quickly changed, went to pay, and gave what I thought was a decent tip for BA -- they say between 10 and 15%. I gave 13%. That's fair, right?! The real story is that in Argentina they don't have the concept of reserving funds on credit cards. So, in the States where at a restaurant they run your card through for 25% more than the bill, then submit the actual amount later, here you leave the tip in cash. So I had to pay cash but I didn't have small bills. Rollin'. So I left what I had in small bills, amounting to 13% each (masseuse and facialist). When I got outside Hav talked some sense into me so I walked back in and asked them to change my 100. I left another 20 a piece for each brining the tip up to 20%. Am I redeemed.

Nextstop, internet cafe. We had to meet the apartment owner to pay the deposit we owed her. We found a shop where I sent an email to the agency asking them to arrange a time for us. After that we went on a mission for food, having not eaten in the last 5 hours. Massages will wear you out, you know.

First we went to a place in our guidebook which turned out to no longer be there. When Hav and I don't have a plan around food chaos erupts. And by chaos I mean bickering and passive-aggressive finger pointing. For all intents and purposes we become helpless. So I'm not sure how we did it but we settled on a cafe on the edge of Barrio Norte facing Av. Santa Fe. By this time I'm so sick of bread and I really want a salad and oh yeah, I'm, uh, starving. I ordered a salad saying "Soy vegetariana y no carne." Big mistake. I'm in the land of gilded beef where not only is the concept of vegetarianism slightly suspect, but also not altogether understood.

"Ahhh," the waiter says, "bien -- no carne; con avi." I should have checked my damn book. "Avi" apparently means "bird." Motherscratcher. My salad came, which I'm dying for, and its chock full of turkey shreds. Not even the kind I could pick around or out. I suppose the chef felt sorry for me, having abstained from red meat, and in an effort to save my soul, heaped disproportionate amounts of this avi stuff. In retrospect, duh. So I ended up eating the pizza after all. Did I mention I really need to learn Spanish?

After filling up (what an American concept) we headed back to the internet cafe to see what time we needed to pay the deposit. 8:30. Great! Time for more exploring. We were carrying around my laptop (don't ask *why* I brought it) so we decided to see Recoleta cemetery some other day and instead drop off our bags at home. Before home we caught a cab to Centro to go to Chaten travel -- the agency we were using for our bus travel to El Chaten. We didn't know what time they closed but when we got in the cab at 4:30 and 20 minutes later we found ourselves still stuck in a traffic jam, we decided to go it on foot. I can't believe we understood the cabbie's directions, but by the grace of God we got there before they closed and booked our travel for the next day.

We hopped on the subway, and this being a holiday, we rode for free. I thought it odd that policemen still guarded the ticket checks when no tickets were needed. P.S. if you take the subway in a foreign city where you don't speak the language, this means you're brave. The 20 minutes on the subway gave us rest for our shoulders so that instead of returning home, we went shopping. Naturally. Back in Palermo Viejo we each got a few things (Hav bought me the cutest shift for my bday!) before settling at Bar 6. Have you ever had a Rob Roy? No? Don't.

I wrote, Hav read, and we ordered more drinks to neutralize the former. Hav left to go pay Cristina and I ordered food for us. Bar 6 is cool digs. Exposed brick on one side, lots of couches and low slung tables capped off by good food (despite that even one mixed drink will result in a hangover WHILE you're drinking it). Hav came back and as usual, ordered the better meal.

I packed for Patagonia and went to bed.

It is the virtues, not the faults...which constitute one's true legacy. -- Gandhi

Argentina Diaries: Day 2

It is clear to me after choosing to rent an apartment that a) this is the best way to travel and b) I wish I could be here for a month -- an immersion in the language and culture. It's not always easy though -- there is no concierge for recommendations, lesser chance to meet up with other travellers to speak with in English as a reprieve -- all that. But, and this makes it all worth it -- you feel as if you are part of the city.

On Sunday after waking up late, we headed out for the day. First stop, San Telmo, home to a huge flea market. By the time we got there, we were pretty hungry so we stopped in a cafe to get breakfast. I didn't like my pan -- the bread pieces were like croûtons -- so we paid and left to look for another place. We found a French restaurant recommended in both our guidebooks but it didn't open til 12:30. In the meantime, we walked the fair. Every tourist book, site, blog, and bathroom stall I read before my trip recommended watching the tango dancers who perform on the side of the street in San Telmo. Unfortunately, every time we walked past one, they were on a break. Kinda like the writers on strike in LA. So we ended up seeing them take pictures with tourists. One woman (what is it with Americans?!) pratically humped a dancer's leg. No shame. In other news, we intended to buy all of our gifts while at the market, but much of it was kinda cheap and cheesy. It's not that I have friends who are above cheap and cheesy, mind you... I just didn't want to cart shit around. I saw a cool papier mache mobile I liked for Devin (her bday is the day after mine), but that's just too high maintenance to pack.

At 12:30 we went to the French restaurant and were greeted by the (very) French owner who first made fun of my Spanish, and then when I switched to French, made fun of that too. Turns out, he's an ex-New Yorker who left a few years ago, fed up with Bush, Francophobes, and America's terror campaign. We didn't catch his name, but you can't miss him if you end up at Le Brasserie Petanque. You'll know him because he drops the word "motherf*%ker" at every table he greets, but in the most charming of ways. Really. And he gives you a free drink when you walk in the door. How do you beat that? Anyway, my heart melted when a group of Americans sat down next to us and tried to speak Spanish to me. Evidently they mistook me for Argentinian. Aww shucks.

Well, we ate and left San Telmo, then headed over to Congreso and Micro Centro. Not much law makin' or finance happens on Sundays, so we headed towards Florida street. Think of your least favorite mall stores. Now put them outdoors in the middle of a business district. Voila! Florida street. But because Hav and I planned a run later and I didn't bring running shoes, I patronized said street for a pair of borderline these-could-be-cute-or-hideously-wrong Adidas.

BA has many great, vast, and centrally located parks. Being summer, the parks were packed. Hav and I dodged locals as we ran first around the perimeter of the zoo, then switched to Plaza Italia and continued our trek. We ran, then finished off with frisbee, and I put a cherry on it all by twisting my ankle at the end. Two days later and still store.

We got home, showered, and headed out for sushi. Thirty minutes later in the wrong shoes, we found our restaurant. CLOSED. Naturally this sort of thing only happens when you're hungry enough to consider crime. We settled, and by 'we' I mean 'I', on a parilla (across the street from La Dorita but NOT La Dorita, as I had to hear about for the rest of the trip). The place was eh, but I did have a good glass of wine (Santa Julia Malbec) or five, and really good potato chips.

Neither by intention nor extraordinary conversation, our dinner lasted three hours. Finally we got our check and walked to Freddo for my birthday dessert. I don't eat dessert save birthdays or a major holiday (i.e. Xmas, Thanksgiving, Arbor Day...) so I had a free pass. Freddo, those bastards, let us in the door but wouldn't serve us -- something about it being too late though it was only midnight (early by BA standards) and people who walked in after us were served. I hope they choked on their - my - ice cream. We left and went elsewhere.

This is what happens when two people-pleasers travel together and neither speak the language: you both try to please the other and neither ends up happy. We ended up at an ice cream shop where we couldn't figure out how to order. You had to first choose your size, where 'size' are diagrams of unrecognizable shapes; second, pay; third, give the receipt to the scooper who asks you what you want. You can see how that process might require advanced Spanish. Turns out we ended up paying for three scoops of ice cream, but were confused by the whole thing and ended up asking for only two which in turn confused the scooper. And to cement the fact that we didn't know what THE HELL we were doing, both of our scoops were different banana flavors. We left disappointed and went home.

It is the virtues, not the faults...which constitute one's true legacy. -- Gandhi

Argentina Diaries: Day 1

So here we are in Buenos Aires. It's Sabado (this is my way of seriously trying to learn Spanish). We arrived EARLY. We found our cab driver but of course needed to get cash. Wait - let me back up - the Miami airport is nasty. Havis and I got a slice of Pizzeria Uno which we were both looking forward to until we took a bite. Puke. But then we shared a beer. Not puke. We've been sharing a helluva lot of beer. Anyway, Hav suggested we get cash while still in the States, but I disagreed - we could get cash in BA. We rented an apartment for our stay and per the email agreement, we needed US$138 to pay the remainder of our balance. I went to the ATM. I tried to get out pesos. Simple enough, right?

Unlike Europe or even Mexico, most Argentinians do not speak English, or at least they don't let on that they do, which could be why Buenos Aires is called the Paris of South America. The ATMs are only occasionally with English options. I cobbled together my Spanish to withdraw money. As it turns out, I pulled out 300 pesos (US$100) and it wouldn't let me get any more. I'd reached my limit, as best as I could tell. Havis changed his US$40 that he was smart enough to get out in Miami. So now we had 420 pesos. All the while the cabbie waited patiently.

He took us to our apartment. We learned that there are an awful lot of Bolivians in BA, which evidently didn't please him. He told us that Argentinians are "Italians who speak Spanish [when Spanish is not 'Espanol' of course, but 'Castellano', pronounced cast-eh-zhano. This is true. The inflection sounds very Italian. The national pride is reminiscent as well. They all say "ciao" (spelled "chau") and occasionally I hear "prego" save that here, because there's an innate aversion to finishing or even enunciating words, it's pronounced "preg-ah."

Anyway, so we get to the apartment. The cab driver tells us it's US$32 or 100 pesos. Uh, what? I thought it was included in the remainder we owed Casa San Telmo, our rental agency. Okay fine. We paid him and went inside.

Eva, an employee of CST, met us an introduced us to Cristina, the woman who owns the apartment. Eva's English is like my French, which got us far enough along to understand that they didn't want US$138, they wanted US$368! WTF?!

So the email string I had was not clear. I thought I paid the rental fee and the deposit was included, but apparently not. This was, perhaps, lost in translation. One problem -- we only had about 464 pesos ($155) left. Not enough. So Cristina left and Eva walked me to an ATM while Hav waited in the apartment. We walked, and walked, and walked some more. ATMs are not on every corner. We found one eventually, and I tried, and tried, and tried to pulse out money. Shit. I had apparently already reached my maximum withdrawal for the day. Seriously? US$100 is all you can extract in a day? (Later in the trip I found other ATMs that provided me work-arounds.) That's so weird. Why? $100 does get you very far. Actually here it does. So Eva, who, btw, has been married for a very long time and has four daughters, from 24 to 16, walked me back to the apartment. Shit. Am I in trouble?

By this time Eva and I have been gone almost 45 minutes and I'm worried about Scott being worried. When we returned, Eva called Mercedes, the owner of CST. She said a whole bunch of stuff in Spanish or whatever to her boss, then hands me the phone. Mercedes tells me we're to meet Cristina on Monday to pay the remaining balance. Okay, this I can handle. Eva gave me her personal email address (we are now friends -- amigas, if you will), and left.

Hav and I made a plan to go see the city. Let's hit the city! See Palermo Soho -- all that good stuff. Ok. I let the water warm up as I prepared for the shower (which entails grabbing a camel-load of Sonya Dakar products, change of clothes, and a towel). I hopped in. The water filled up around my ankles but I couldn't figure out how to turn it off. Oh well. And then it happens.

Scott: VANESS!!! Oh my God!
Me: What? What's wrong? (I'm thinking he saw a rat or somethin'.)
Scott: Water -- EVERYWHERE! Shut it off. Shut it off!

I opened the shower curtain. Sure enough the bathroom floor is three inches deep in water It's out the door. I shut if off. Scott ran in and handed me a HAND towel. (I haven't been hand towel size in over two ears.)

"What's his name? Ernesto?"
"Armano," I answer. Scott runs out to the balcony and called for the building maintenance man who miraculously met only an hour earlier and happened to be in the courtyard two floors below. Armano ran up to our apartment. Water is literally spilling onto the balcony. Meanwhile I've been upgraded from hand towel to beach version. After about 10 minutes, Armano produced a huge clog of hair from the drain. He is talking at us but of course we didn't understand. No entiendo, we tell him. He speaks louder. Our faces turned puzzled. He says, somehow, that he'll be back. He returns with a girl who speaks a little English. She tells us that a huge wad of hair was blocking the drain but he cleared it. We ask if we're gonna be in trouble -- we just rented the apartment less than an hour earlier. That apparently didn't translate b/c he answered with, "There are always people coming and going from this apartment." GREAT. In addition to questioning our hygiene, we're also drug dealers. We thanked him and his friend after we all pitched in to shoo the water into the drain in the bathroom floor. I signaled with my hands a question of, "will the floors warp." Of course they won't... the floor is laminate. And then, after several very uncomfortable silent moments, they left. Problem solved. Hav showers and we're on our way.

First stop: food. We're hungry. We walked around, or got lost as it were, but saw a street fair so it was okay. We found our first restaurant choice, Krishna, a vegetarian joint where nothing on the menu save lassi, seemed recognizable. The music, however, looked familiar. Gopala, Gopala, Devikananda, Gopala. Yay. And then, Pink Floyd. Gopala?! Go figure. We ended up with some really good food by sheer luck.

I'll digress from my account to say that I really love Buenos Aires. It's both prideful and arrogant at once. In leaving to go to Patagonia, it already feels like we're leaving home. Fo the most part, the people have been exceedingly warm when engaged. There's a cool exterior to be sure, but once the formalities are done away with, there exists a warmth that bleeds sincerity.

Also, though I've been challenged, I really look forward to speaking Spanish. Part of me is a little disappointed when someone speaks back to me in English. I could see myself having a vacation home here.

So I'll return to my story. Saturday night, after Krishna, we walked around a lot more then finally returned to the apartment where it smelled like mildew. I showered and went for dinner at 9. We held off as long as we could. People eat very late here. 9 is early. We went to Bar Uriarte where we sat at the bar next to some girls from Austin. Had I been myself I would've been like "you're from Austin? I lived in Austin!!" but I think Hav wanted the anonymity. The night ended up uneventful: a long dinner (2 hours) then back to the apartment. We fell asleep around 1 and planned to get up at 9. I set my alarm incorrectly so we slept in till 10.

I forgot to mention that on our way out to dinner we stopped and had mate at a cafe. Making mate is an experience steeped deep in tradition. you get hot water, loose leaf mate, and a special instrument that looks like a cross between a straw and a perforated spoon. Also a special cup is used, called a gourd, I suspect because real gourds are used. You place your mate in the cup, slowly add hot water, sugar if you like, then place your straw-thingy in the mix and drink. Buenisimo! That is all.

It is the virtues, not the faults...which constitute one's true legacy. -- Gandhi