Week Two

WHERE ARE YOU FROM,” THE American doctor was saying between brakes of galloping pulls on cigarettes and red bull and vodka, “although my situation was better before I started coming here, I’m sure you’ll find nowhere is better than here. I think people have a difficult time adjusting when they first come. I’m sure things’ll work out for you though. You’ll have a great time in no time.”

Since I had way too much fun on Saturday night, my entire week (7 Nights) was devoted to going out and exploring Buenos Aires’ night life. I haven’t really been to bars and clubs by myself, and I failed to read the lonely guy at the bar etiquette book by Emily Post, so I came up with a routine to ground myself. I would examine every architectural object in the joint and after, I would (very painfully) talk to strangers… The Doc was cynical and arrogant, for I would have pegged him as a lawyer, and smoked and drank a disturbing amount for a medical doctor.

“You like this country?” the doctor asked.

“I’ve only been here for two weeks.”

“Everyone in Latin America thinks the Argentines are a bouch of arrogant pricks.”
He said, “They are probably right. Then again, if you had a country like this…”

“It’s pretty nice,” I agreed.

He told me, “there are some problems with the government, and people are always grumbling about it, but if they complain about it, it’s probably a good thing, huh?”

I showed off my relevant knowledge and opinions of the matter; then “Anyways”, I said. “Do you like soccer?”

The house deejay was spinning electronica. I got up from my stool and went to the bathroom. When I came back, I took his number…

I met up with him the following night at a jazz club; later we went to a night club. “What do you think of the girls here?” I asked.

“A total waste of time!” he shouted. He surveyed the room, methodically inspecting the asses of every female within a 50-foot radius. “They’re hot as hell, but impossible, he warned me. Their like talking to a brick wall, but the escort services here are world class, the best that I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean….”

“Of course! What is wrong with you?” The Doctor rolled his eyes and chuckled to himself, and I suddenly realized, like a shot to abdomen, that I profoundly disliked this man. “I’m going out and meeting a girl after this. All it would take is one phone call and, you know….”

I shook my head side-to-side, dismissed myself, and came back to my apartment.

Then, on a wet, windy Thursday night after playing soccer in the gym, I hopped into a taxi. “Bustanmante 986,” I said, while adjusting myself. He busted a turn and nearly hit a street light. I was going over to Sol’s house, an Argentine woman, to dance tango at a milongia.

The cab came to a halting stop as though the driver had been there several times before. Two dogs were playfully fighting on the wet 1” x 1” tiled-side walk, as I trepidly move my hand through the rod-iron-guard-door to buzz her flat.

Inside, it was equally strange. She showed me around. It teemed with character, antiques, and collections of random things. “Have a seat,” she said.

My heart was racing. I calmly went through my bag, and in all its madness, soccer gear toiletries, and maps I found the bottle of wine I brought. She moved her body without embarrassment or pride towards the kitchen, and in the drawers she retrieved a lever-style corkscrew opener. The cork seamlessly slid up through the bottle’s neck.

“Did you come to Argentine alone?” she asked.

I nodded and my eyes gazed down.

“How do you like Almagro?” she asked.

“Its location is good”….

She shrugged and grinned…

Our taxi rolled up outside the Milongia around 1 A.M. We walked in and made way to the bar and ordered a drink, and pulled up a seat at a table. It was classy inside.

“So what do you think of the dance?” she asked.

To which I replied, “It’s intimate and sexy.”

“Good dancers tonight,” she observed.

I didn’t have much to compare it to besides the few classes I had taken in Ashland, but I was impressed with their skills. Some acquaintances of hers were there, so she kissed them hello on cheek. “Who is this?” they asked. She said that I couldn’t understand Spanish or something of that sort. His mouth nearing my ear, “De donde sos?”

“Los Angeles.”

To me he looked confused, “Los Angeles,” I repeated.

“Ohhh, Casifornia—beautiful place,” he said.

Soon, I was just staring at Sol unabashedly. She smiled.

“Bailamos?” I said with a grin.

I took her hand and dragged her to the dance floor. The music struck up, I pulled her as close to me as I possibly could, and off we went. It was like taking the lever of an airplane on autopilot. I was stunned by the effortless and precision of her movements. She did most of the leading as I eased into it; then I started feeling confident, it felt like we were flying around the dance floor. Was I suddenly this good?

Well, no. In no time, I was tangled up with no where to go as if I was playing twister. She helped me out of the mess, and we started up again. A half-hour later, I found myself seated at a table with strangers watching her in the corner of my eye whisk around the dance floor.

After I nursed my Jack Daniels for an hour, she came over for another dance. This was more fun than the last set.