Let's Talk about your Duties

Wow, so the last time I actually wrote something was in February 2011…  So much has happened to me since then.  Still living in Buenos Aires, found a job that I love (see previous post), oh and Ale and I had the COOLEST DAUGHTER EVER!  

That’s right folks, I’m officially apart of the M.I.L.F.S. club.   Is that weird to say about yourself?  If the shoe fits, right???  Am I right?!?!

So her name is Lola, and thus far she is NOT a showgirl, but we’ll let her decide on that; although I guarantee there will be no shortage of Barry Manilow music in her life…

So, let’s get to the point.

I would say that my parents, for the most part, always gave me what I wanted.  They were loving, motivating and always there for me. 

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However, one thing they most certainly did not do was buy me the book, Everyone Poops.  

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Full disclosure: I’m going to get a little personal here, so stop reading if you don’t like TOO MUCH INFORMATION…

I’ve always been a nervous pooper…  I remember the first time I went to the cottage with an ex boyfriend.  I didn’t poop for 7 days…  The sounds, the smells, the “excuse me I’m going to the bathroom,” only to return 20 minutes later to smiling, knowing faces.  I just couldn’t do it.  And so I waited 7 agonizing days..  

Next came college.  Trying to relax when there are 50 girls coming in and out of the bathroom yelling, puking whatever they drank that night, talking on the phone (ew because that's sanitary).  A girl just couldn’t catch a break. 

Things got a little bit better during my travels, because let’s face it, when you’ve got a case of Delhi-Belly you don’t care who hears you or what they think.  

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Then you have a child and it’s suddenly all about their bowel movements.  You’re waiting in the line at the supermarket and some chummy old lady strikes up a conversation, which typically goes, “Aww, she’s so cute!  And how’s she latching on to the boob?  And is she pooping regularly??”  

Like as if the sanctity of what my child does in her private time is somehow open game for Q&A.  “You can ask about my boob lady, but keep my kid’s poop out of it!!”

This isn’t just limited to strangers; it seems like we’ve all got poop on the brain.  When Ale changes her, I find myself asking him, “So how was her poop?  Was it a lot?  What color? And the consistency?” 

I have this out of body experience when I hear myself asking these questions, but I just can’t stop myself.  I’d like to think that I used to talk about highly intellectual things like art, the economy, politics, did-you-see-crazy-youtube-video, whatever.  But now it seems like all I talk about is poop.

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And so that brings me to the point of, why don’t more people talk about it, if we know that everyone does it?  I get that gals want to keep the romance alive, but why is it that they choose to hide the most natural thing the human body can possibly do.  Hide that your blond hair is actually brown.  Hide that you get your do-dah waxed on a frequent basis or that you secretly have all of your children's names picked out... But DON’T try to hide the fact that you poop…  

You eat, you digest and then ultimately you POOP!  Get over it; it’s not going to make him like you any less if he finds out that *gasp* you drop the kids off at the pool daily. 

I'm not saying lets get into detail about every little thing, but lets just at least acknowledge that we as adults, as humans, we all do it, ok?

And to my kiddo, don’t worry.  Mommy and Daddy will most certainly be reading you Everyone Poops, so that we can give you the gift of not having irritable bowel syndrome.  It’s the gift that keeps on giving… daily…

For all of you who think poop, farts, burps, etc are still funny: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xzTbFI9sg8

Poo!!!?? 

When little Laura grows up...

Anyone that knows me, knows that I am the official Jane-Of-All-Trades (subtitle: Master-Of-Nothing).

When I was in high school my parents had me take an aptitude test to see where my future career interest lied. After a few weeks the test came back… Inconclusive… It seems that while I liked a vast number of things moderately, I didn’t show a strong aptitude for........

A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

I think the closest I came to “Moderate to High Interest” was being a paralegal; I get that they’re necessary to make the world go round, but the thought of having my nose buried in mounds of paperwork makes inseminating cows sound more appealing (which ironically enough I happened to show slight interest in).

Just for a historical background, I’m going to list a few of the more memorable (context: humiliating, embarrassing, ridiculous) jobs that I have had in my life:

-Soccer Referee

-Sears Hardware Cashier

-Hollister Clothes Folder (1 day)

-Lifeguard, the foundation that led to…

-Swim Coach

-Country Club Beverage Cart Girl

-Coldstone Creamery Ice cream Scooper/Singer for .25 cent tips

-Babysitter/Nanny

-A short stint as a Waitress, where I actually ate off peoples plates before serving them… (2 weeks)

-IU Memorial Union Hotel Front Desk Attendant

-Jagermeister Promotional “Model” what a title…

-Bartender (thank you for two trips to Europe!)

-UPS Account Manager

-Budweiser Merchandiser

-English Teacher

-Market Analysist

-Marketing Intern (Indiana Pacers)

-Project Manager (more data entry less management)

Now this is the shortened list; there are definitely a few that I’m forgetting and unfortunately I’m without my W-2s to paint you the exact scene, but I believe you get the point. I’ve never flipped burgers at McDonalds, but by looking at this list, I wouldn’t put it past me.

If there’s a random job, I’ve inevitability done it or am going to do it. I’m what you’d consider a flaky employee. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy working (ie spending money) and at one point in my life was extremely worried about becoming a workaholic. Thankfully I snapped out of that phase of my life. I’m just saying that you probably shouldn’t count on me being around for the long haul, giving 110%, going the extra mile, etc... that is, unless one day I get paid to do absolutely nothing, at which point I’ll totally rock.

Now I’m at that point where I want to get into my career, or more so, I’m succumbing to social norms that dictate that I should be getting into my career. Yet even at 25 years old, I still don’t know what it is that I want to do. When I was a kid I would always say I wanted to either be a brain surgeon or an actress. Since neither of those lucrative careers panned out, I’ve gotta get back to the drawing board.

I recently started a 9-5 with a company who will be sponsoring my visa, giving me great benefits, nice vacation perks, etc etc. And you know what?? After a week and a half of working, it just now hit me… I HATE WORKING A 9-5!! I’m just no good at it. When 1:00 creeps around, right after you’ve had a bite to eat, you know what I want to be doing??? Sleeping. Not mind-numbingly entering data into spreadsheets. Not sitting in a high rise watching the world go by. Not backing up and archiving past projects. Just blissfully sleeping, maybe even in the park after reading a few chapters of my latest Spanish love story.

And so I’m stuck. I’ve had great positions in the past, but none of them have screamed, “STAY IN THIS POSITION FOR THE REST OF YOUR WORKING LIFE!” I haven’t had my ¡Ahaa! moment that’s magically defined what I want to do. I’ve always been envious of people who have always known what they want to do. Take my sister for example; when she was a kid, she always knew that she wanted to be teacher. And you know what? She is a elementary school teacher, achieving her goals, and gettin stuff done... Why can’t I be like that?

I’m sure you’re all sitting on the edge of your seats waiting for my witty antidote as to what all this means, where I’m going, what I’m doing, etc. Well, unfortunately I’m just as clueless as the rest of you about what to do, where to work, live, or *gulp* settle down… And I really don't think any of those drawn out cliches like, "if at first you don't succeed, try, try again," or "the right job will find you," will help me put highlights in my hair and new dresses on my hips.

I guess while I’m waiting to figure out the rest, I’ll cross my fingers for an Erin Brockovitch-esque moment in my life where a fabulous job magically falls in my lap (note to self: buy great push up bra to speed up this process). Until then I’ll be waking up like the rest of the sorry saps who trudge to their futile jobs daily, living each and every day for Happy Hours and long weekends…

Side note: Thank god I live in Argentina where we have a long weekend once every month… How you like them apples huh??!?

Oops.. Mrs. Jones Did it Again

Ahh classic soul music… If ever there was a man who could drop panties, it would unquestionably be a chocolate lover with the voice of silk. Classic soul is unequivocally some of the best and most timeless music to use while setting the mood and relieving “stress,” ergo this music has transcended time from generation to generation, or better yet, from bedroom to bedroom.

You may have never heard of a one-hit wonder, Billy Paul, but I’m sure you can all relate to his story. Let me explain…

Among my ever-growing list of favorite songs is “Mrs. Jones.” A classic story about lust, infidelity, and lies, but in a way that even the nicest girl wants to become a sultry mistress, sneaking around with her naughty boy-toy. Mrs. Jones knows that what she’s doing is wrong, but isn’t that part of the attraction? The intricate web of tiptoeing between relationships becomes a drug that the couple needs daily, while always thinking in the back of their minds about the delicate balance between their carnal desires, and the caution they must acknowledge with every move.

“Ignorance is Bliss? Or Naïveté is Murder?”

Mrs. Jones was well aware of what she was intentionally doing, she knew it was wrong, but she proceeded anyway for the trill and excitement of the chase. Her and her lover would meet daily for their trysts, the same time, the same café, very oh-so-taboo.

But what if Mrs. Jones didn’t realize she was Mrs. Jones? What if she thought she was just plain-old-Mrs-Smith?

One rule of thumb that I have yet to master in Argentina is the direct question of, “So, do you have a girlfriend?” I guess it’s very Gringa of me to assume that when you’re spending time with a guy that obviously means that he is in the same boat at me, single and loving it.

Man was I wrong.

Unbeknownst me, I have become the insatiable Mrs. Jones… Twice… Now, you may be thinking to yourself, “ah well, she’s not completely innocent in all of this,” but you’re wrong. To say that I was duped doesn’t even do the situation justice.

Example A: after 2ish months of spending time with a wonderful guy, talking, grabbing drinks, etc, we got into a conversation about relationships, big mistake. He began talking about how he loves all types of women (typical argentine), and how it’s great that he can be in an open relationship, spending time with whomever he wants. HA HA… Wow, speechless (not an easy feat for me)... The fire lit under my ass that night could have sent a 500 lb smoker sprinting for the door and a stiff drink.

Almost 5 months later, my friend is back on the market, and calling me often. Despite his ahem… affinity for hmmm multiple girl{friends} he’s still a great guy. I mean, not marriage material or anything, but a great guy nonetheless. And as Nana says, it’s always good to have a fella to call to grab a drink. Advice taken!

Example B: Yes, I know that I’m going to get in trouble for this one, and part of me will regret it, but f*ck it, I’m young, impulsive, and telling the truth. I walked into my apartment about a 3 months(ish) ago to find a group of my roommates friends all sitting around playing playstation (yes, these are grown men), and was introduced to a friend of a friend of a friend of a cousin of a soccer teammate, etc (you get the gist).

He, like all argentine men, was extremely charming and a sight for sore eyes; despite his inability to speak English, we were able to talk, flirt, whatever you wanna call it. While we were able to communicate, there are certain fundamental cultural points that I’m still unable to wrap my head around. Like say for example, if you kiss a girl, and then taking her out on multiple dates, that is a signal of being single… Wait, “IN AMERICA, (typically) IF YOU TAKE A GIRL OUT ON A DATE, IT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE SINGLE.” Obviously there are always the exceptions, but for me, this has always been my experience.

A week after we meet, we ended up going out of town to get away from the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires. About 100k’s outside the city, I had a bomb dropped on me. “Lau, I kind of still have a girlfriend, and we live together.”

“SON OF A BIIIIIIIIIIITCH!”

***The resolution of this story will eventually come out in my book. So until then, for those of you fortunate enough to have read it, you know how it turned out. For those who haven't... Well, just wait for the paperback!*****

When will argentines learn that they can’t have their cake and eat it too? And believe me, that saying really doesn’t culturally translate over. I think I’ve tried 101 ways to express it and I always turn up short.

So its back to the drawing board, and hopefully the closet, to hang up my boots as Mrs. Jones. I’m more of a Havaianas kinda gal anyways.

Mele Kalikimaka Folks!!

It's December 9th and the citizens of the great white North are hunkering down for a long winters nap. Right now they're out buying egg nog and christmas trees; they're shopping to and fro for the latest and greatest gifts, all the while scrapping ice chunks from their defrosting car windows. The radio stations have long since started their 24/7 Christmas jingles, getting people in the holiday spirit more than a month in advance. You're right 105.7, Alvin and the Chipmunks should be played until it is obnoxiously stuck in your brain well through St. Patricks day.

Christmas in North America is more than just a day; it's a month worth of bargain shopping, present wrapping, stress inducing HELL... Now don't get me wrong, I love Christmas. It's a wonderful holiday and the saying really is true, "it's better to give than receive." I love shopping for my family and Moose, but I don't like all the BS that surrounds this soul-crushing day.

For those of you that don't know, the Gilbert's and Mrs. Britt are escaping the bitter cold to venture to the addictive city of Buenos Aires for a holiday in the sun (and humidity). Thus far I have already been enjoying the beauty that is the Holiday Season in the Southern Hemisphere. For example, at parks, malls, and buildings, you can find yourself looking at huge, plastic Christmas trees, bedazzled with hand-woven tinsel and gaudy ornaments. You can throw on a skimpy two-piece and head to a grassy area to be surrounded by beautiful men and women leisurely bronzing their already sun-kissed shoulders. Just don't expect to cozy up to a roasting fire with a cup of hot chocolate here; instead grab a glass of crisp, white wine and head to the balcony to breathe in the sweet, flower-drunk air that breezes past your face.

To date, I have yet to hear even a single Christmas carol, and Santa isn't causing mothers and children to throw tantrums when the midget elf closes the line 15 minutes early. The malls don't seem to be any busier than they normally are. Not that I typically go to the mall here, aside from it being a shortcut and a proven way of cutting exactly 2 minutes off my daily commute. In all, it's be an extremely stressless holiday season, a first in my 25 years.

This year, due to location, we won't be able to do all of the same "Gilbert Traditions" we are accustomed to, but I'll try to stick to as many as I can. The night before, I'm banking on one of the family members to bring "Christmas Vacation," a staple of American comedy/culture and the Gilbert family. I'm not sure if I can remember a time that we didn't watch this the night before. Yes, as a family, we could single handedly recite the entire video from start to finish, but that's what traditions are!!

For any of you who aren't aware of the famous Male Kalikimaka scene, here you go:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWN5Chp1Hyg

Christmas morning will always consist of eggs benedict, grapefruits, and mimosas, no matter where we are in the world. But this year instead of a large turkey dinner that the mother slaves over all day, we will be enjoying a traditional Argentine asado, complete with chorizo, beef, and red wine. If I'm lucky, Bevy will bring the chinese poppers, equipped with paper hats and small toys (See picture above).

Cariló, Argentina will be the location of our sun-drenched getaway. It's called the "Forest on the Beach," and thankfully isn't a typical tourist destination. We'll be two blocks away from the surf and 300 clicks away from the hustle and bustle of the big smoke that is Buenos Aires. I think it'll be a great introduction for the gringos to the relaxed Argentine pace of life. Plus Papa G will absolutely love the BBQs here (insert Tim "The ToolMan" Taylor grunt here).

It's been funny chatting with people about customs here. Take Santa for example, or Papa Noel for Argies; in this country, the bearded man defies all laws of reason and logic, and enters each house exactly at midnight, while the children are busy hiding in their rooms. With the jingle of a bell, the kiddies emerge to find a room full of red-faced, drunk relatives and a tree full of presents. Now, as a believer well into my 13th year, I just don't see how these kids haven't figured it out earlier. Maybe anglo-saxton kids are more intelligent... Just spitballing ideas!

In sum: While we may not have a tree this year or even presents for that matter (three flights to BA is sufficient enough), we'll have each other, and that's worth its weight in gold.

So to everyone, I send hugs and kisses, and a very Merry Christmas, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel, Felix Natal, and Mele Kalikimaka from Buenos Aires!

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Very unrelated... I've jumped on the Amy Winehouse bandwagon a few years behind the times and would suggest listening to, "Me, Mrs. Jones." My sister-in-law first turned me on to her, and now it's a full-blown addiction. It's sensational song and every time I listen to it, I drift off to hedonistic memories that will one day fill a chapter in my book dedicated to the "Elusive Mrs. Jones" and the man she fell in love with.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MVziVfYz2w

Life is Simple...

Life is easy when it's all drawn out for you.

Hey Everybody, Come See How Funny I Am!!

I recently had a conversation with a friend about online dating, and about how you would describe yourself, which got me thinking… If I wanted to bullshit people, I’d say something like, “carefree blonde, adventure traveler, full of life, easy going, athletic, and fun sense of humor…” blah blah blah.

Yes those are all my characteristics, but it really doesn’t read “Laura.” What I would truly want to say, is “Perfectly highlighted blonde, impulsive to the point of carless traveler, full of life (ya that’s pretty spot on), easy going when consuming, athletic-soccer-playing tomboy covered in bruises, and absolutely, sarcastically-f*cking-hilarious.

We’ve all heard the saying “An apple a day, keeps the doctor away.” Well, I’ve tweaked my personal version; my motto to live by, my mantra, my adage would be:

“One belly laugh a day, keeps the doctor away.”

I think it goes without saying that anyone who comes into contact with me is impressed with my quick tongue and even quicker wit (geeeez I'm modest too). Making people laugh is a very unconscious act for me, and it could even be a selfish one; as we all know, laughter is contagious. The more people that laugh around me, the more I get to laugh and the glorious circle continues.

One aspect that many find difficult when learning another language is how to be funny. I don’t know if I could go an entire day without being sarcastic, or quick with a joke (thanks billy joel), or draw attention to how absurd I can be. It’s just impossible… Well, let me rephrase that to, "in English it’s impossible."

Spanish is another story. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to explain, “that’s what she said” to argentines. It just doesn’t translate over culturally. Take for example the conversation I was having the other day with some friends. Someone casually said (in Spanish), “it seems like we’re changing positions all the time.”

What was my gut reaction….? “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!”

I couldn’t believe it; I was set up perfectly, hit it out of the park, intonation and all, and I got nothing… No laugh, no snicker, just a questioning look from the argentine peanut gallery that sat across from me. One finally asked me, “wait, who is she? And what did she say?”

I dropped my head and buried myself in my Malbec, beaten and torn. Now, don’t get me wrong, I definitely make people laugh in Spanish, I’m just not sure if they’re laughing with me or at me. I mean, a laugh is a laugh, right?

And the next time someone says something to me on the Subte or bus, along the lines of, "Can you push yourself in further?" I'll stifle my laughter and attempt to act like an adult (well maybe).

Getting all Frost-y

It’s interesting to think backwards and John Madden your life. Obviously there are things I would have done differently; maybe I should've shut my mouth a few times, or thought twice about a decision. Sometimes I wish I had turned right instead of left.

Recently I’ve been having my students study poetry because, well, I’m the teacher and they get to do what I want. We started analyzing Robert Frosts’ “The Road Not Taken,” a staple for travelers all of the world. It has been one of my favorites since I heard it for the first time in the 7^th grade and in an oddly cliché way, it has helped define my life.

If you haven’t read the poem, I’ll give you the Reader-Digest version:

“Picture a grimy backpacker who comes upon a fork in the road. No one’s around, and he has to make a decision, because he obviously can’t be in two places at once. He looks at both; one is pristine while the other is unmaintained. Being a dirty hippy, he chooses to go left and take the road-less-traveled-by.

Even though he wants to see how the other road looks, he’ll inevitably lack funds, chain himself to a tree, or might catch the whiff of another like-minded-female-soul, either way, he knows invariably that he’s never going to go back to that same place.

We see his future-self sighing, saying that despite everything, it was worth it in the end.”

So, which road do you think I’m cruising on?? Ahh yes, the very same road as the dirty hippie.

There is a sequence in everyone’s life that leads to another; “Do I want to have coffee or a red bull? Do I want to quit my job or stay? Do I want to leave town for a weekend or hang around home?” I’m not a scientist, but I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that, “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”

Hmmm… what to do with this information?

Yes, I chose to take “The Road Less Traveled By,” and it’s obviously made a difference in my life. At this point, I can keep up with a conversation in Spanish, I can maneuver easily through public transportation (oh the horror!), and I can officially say that I know how to make, cook, and serve an Argentine Asado.

But where does that leave me?

Everyday I wake up and I’m surprised at how much I fall more and more in love with Argentina. The people and the culture are inspiring. To be surrounded by people full of fiery passion is an addiction that I just can’t kick.

When I first arrived here, I thought my easy path was chosen. I was going to live here for a year, return and reunite with an ex-flame, and live happily ever after. Enter a HUGE FREAKING FORK, and I decided to turn left down a path that doesn't appear to have an off-ramp.

So here’s my next fork and I know I’m going to be breaking the rules here, but I need to get it out there…. Friends and family, there’s a chance that one day I’m going to bring home an Argentine… There’s also a chance that I will be staying for a longer than a year… It also looks like Moose will be accompanying me…

Beverley, breathe!!

All clichés aside, to answer a pervious question of mine: “Do I want to leave town for a weekend or hang around home?” Hmmm…? Path chosen, decision made, and Rosario, Argentina was a phenomenal adventure.

Action, reaction.

“Cumbia, Raggaeton, Twirling and Ass-Shaking, Whatever it is, I Like it”

Whether its hearing “little white girl can dance” in English or “oooh mira la rubia quien puede bailar,” in either language, it always means more rump shaking. You do it while showering, while brusing your teeth, and oh-so-Demi-Moore-esque, while blow-drying your hair (thank you “Striptease” your theatrical value carries its weight in gold).

If you didn't know, Argentina is the birthplace of Tango. Yes, when my parents come here I’ll take them to a show and let them see the beauty and grace of professional dancers. Then right after they’ll be going to a boliche (club) to see how Argentines really get down, cumbia/salsa/reggaeton-style.

A few months ago, a student of mine (surprise, surprise a student) told me that American guys don’t know how to dance and I began to think back… waaaaay back….

I dated this guy before I moved down here, who had music on during every second of his day, albeit rap, but music nonetheless. Now, that boy could dance, just not in a way that you’d want your parents to see. He was smooth and swayed along with the beat, allowing me to jump in when he wasn’t busy doing choreographed moves with his friends. Believe me, it looked cooler than my written account.

Ok, so there’s one guy that can dance, but I’ll have to go back even farther to find another one, lets say to the fresh age of 16.

Ahhh, Kevo. Yes, many of you know my first boyfriend, Kevin. Well, he is another example of a white boy that can move, sometimes showcasing the “White-Man-Overbite” and the always respected, “Sprinkler.”

Kev’s charming and funny, so we’ll count that as #2 of guys I’ve dated who knew how to dance.

Then I moved to Argentina, AND EVERYTHING CHANGED.

****So here’s my top 5 dancing moments in BA*****

Number 5: The first time I was merked by Latin dancing was about 2 weeks in, when I went out with my host parent’s son for a night of music and drinking. He didn’t speak English and my Spanish was shit, but who needs the spoken word when you've got body language! At 40ish years old, homeboy could move; hands, hips, head, all moving in this gorgeous, fluid movement. That was the moment I realized I would love living in Argentina.

Number 4: El Bicentenario. To celebrate Argentina’s 200^th birthday, my friends and I went downtown for an enormous outdoor concert where I met a pair of twins that will ultimately go down in history as two of my favorite dance partners. Maybe it was the Fernet, or maybe it was the puff (cough cough) pass, but there is nothing better than the feeling of floating, spinning, and watching the world go by. (Two pairs of breathtaking green eyes don't hurt either.)

Number 3: This one may be a shocker for all you Midwesterners out there, but some of my best experiences have been with.... GIRLS.

One will go down in infamy for the rest of my living existence as the girl that ahemm “let me taste her cherry chapstick.” I’m not proud, she was mistaken, but I thanked her for her interest. Next up is the ever graceful, Carol “The Cazz” Gutierrez. Australian-born, Argentine blood pulsing through her veins, which means she can grab your hand and twirl you around the dance floor like a pro. To say she made me blush is an understatement.

Number 2: Watching trannies at midnight in the park… I don’t know if I want to go into details on this one, as there could be youngsters reading... Lets just say they don’t follow the rule of “Less is More” and absolutely nothing is left to the imagination. That being said, I’d let any of them take me out for a night on the town, even on a Tuesday (GASSSP)!

Number 1: I’m going to go ahead and keep this one to myself for my personal memory bank. I know you’re all dying to know who it was with, where, when, etc etc, but there are just some memories that are just too exceptional to share with the rest of the world… at least until the book comes out…

(I will give you a hint though; he was an Argentine, handsome, and astounding).

Tales From a Telo

***Preface: Dear Mom, Dad, Nana, and Grandpa: Please know that what I am about to write is not from my own experiences. It is a finely crafted account of tales from friends, and is thus a fictional story. Please don’t think any less of me.***

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Imagine this: you’re out with your friends at a disco and you meet an amazing guy; he’s gorgeous, tall, Argentine… You hit it off; one things leads to another, and you decide to leave with him.

You stroll hand-in-hand past the hoards of people still on the prowl. He shoots you an irresistible smile and you can’t help but think to yourself, “This guy could be the one.”

Clearly, it’s the fernet and coke talking.

You try to dazzle him with your Spanish language skills by throwing around “vos” and “che” to show that you’ve pseudo-mastered Porteño slang. Really he isn’t listening to a word that you’re saying because lets face it, no man truthfully cares about what women say, in any language.

You suavely throw out your hand to flag down a taxi, all the while teasing the Argentine with your hands, your tongue, your body, to show him that American girls aren’t as frigid as everyone says.

You get in the taxi and are smacked by reality: he’s a 26-year old Argentine, who lives with his parents, and you live in a house full of girls, in a little bed, with walls so thin you could hear an ant sneeze…

Rule number one for mastering the hook up in Argentina: do you homework, know your neighborhood, and scout out the local Telos. “Godoy Cruz y Güemes, por favor,” you say to the taxi driver without skipping a beat.

He is impressed with your working knowledge of Argentine Telos, the infamous rent by the hour hotel rooms.

15 minutes, and a good deal of ass grabbing later, you’ve reached your final destination of the night, Telo “X.”

Now is a pivotal point of the night that will show you just how well you’ve seduced your prey. He ops for the most expensive room; you smile to yourself, satisfied knowing you did your job correctly.

The hallways of the Telo snake and turn like a labyrinth. Room 25. You two walk in and are greeted by an Middle-Eastern scene, complete with sari-draped walls, smiling Buddhas, and the faint smell of incense. Outstanding selection, Argie.

The bathroom is outfitted with a Jacuzzi, jasmine bubbles, and his and hers toothbrushes. Upon closer inspection, you notice that above the four-poster bed that a large, ornate, and somewhat gaudy mirror is fastened. The room reeks of male interior design. The linens are of a high thread count and you could get lost for days in the tenderness of the pillows.

He orders a bottle of wine from the 24-hour bar, but you know you’ll never get to enjoy it because in the 5 minutes it takes to get to the room, you’ll already be submerged in your own version of Arabian Nights.

Your phone alarm sounds at 9:00 am; you realize that the night and the fantasy, is over. Like a great dream, you try to slip back into your role, but you know it’ll never be the same.

The suns rays splash your face as you leave the Telo and make your way back to your apartment. Your Argentine softly kisses you as you say your goodbyes. He whispers, “Nos llamamos,” or “We’ll see eachother,” into your ear and jumps into a taxi. Whether or no you’ll see him again is unknown, but you’ll always have that one perfect night in the Middle-Eastern themed Telo.

----

There are a few things that Argentines have mastered, Malbec and fútbol for instance. Another is their insatiable thirst for all things sexual. They aren’t coy about what their intentions are; they want sex and a lot of it, hence the success of Telos, Swingers Clubs, and the age-old profession of prostitution.

They put their sexuality out there, and you can’t fault them for that.

I think I've found my knack for fictional writing, no?