The Awkward Traveler

“Run upstairs, and don’t come down until I tell you.” While these may sound like the last words Anne Frank heard before the Nazi’s found her, they were actually swiftly spoken to me tonight. “The police are here!” Ah shit. I don’t have my working papers so I couldnt be found out. I walked quickly but calmly to the stairs and to my disappointment I heard “Chico!” I turned around to find a familiar looking jacket with lettering on it. (Yep those same sons o bitches who pulled their gun on me before.) 

Sebastian tried to convince them I was just his friend, in town to learn spanish. I dont think they bought it. They wrote down my name and my drivers license number, which I’m pretty sure is useless in Argentina. Hopefully I don’t have Interpol on my ass. They made me tell them my address…they know where I live. At least for the rest of the time the police were there I got to pretend like I didn’t work there.

I now know what it’s like to be an illegal immigrant in America. Us illegal aliens deserve the right to work and the right to a better life. I’m going to be constantly looking over my shoulder.

You know what they say, three strikes and your out. I’m not looking to be out any time soon, so please Immigration officers, give me a break.

I’ve been neglecting my right to vote. I need to send in my request for an absentee ballot. It’s been on my list of things to do but has been left unfulfilled, along with meeting Argentine girls, eating a juicy steak, and my right to bear arms.

We discovered that the embassy is holding a voting event and American snacks are going to be served. What do you imagine American snacks are? The first thing that came to my mind was pigs in a blanket, but I’d bet its something lame like Pringles. But anyways I’m not eligible to vote there for bureaucratic reasons. I still might show up for the free snacks. 

Apparently my bar has become a hang out for a group of older American men who came to Buenos Aires for sexual encounters. They didn’t come here for the great beef or to learn Spanish; They came for the sex trade and to troll for young Latinas. 

And when I say old, I mean these guys are Hugh Hefner old. Strange, how he is socially excepted and has a hit tv show, but when I see an old man hitting on young girls here, I think pervert. Such is celebrity…

One of these Hugh Hefner wanabees was escorted into the bar the other night with his own bevy of beauties. This man is a grandpa type, he wears big framed glasses and a baseball hat, and my mental image of him is recalling something which resembles a hunting vest.

Anyways, he walked into the bar with three hookers, and he bought them all a bottle of the cheapest beer. They sat awkwardly while the old man gladly introduced his new friends to anyone who walked by. 

I guess sexual tourism is the new eco-tourism…

Teaching english is harder than I imagined. I’m exchanging english lessons for Peruvian food with one of the waitresses at work. We met for an hour yesterday and went through a book she had. We never think about grammar in our own language. I take for granted every idiosyncrasy and phrase in American English. Try explaining the difference between should, would, and could! It’s not easy. I also discovered the word “girl” is strangely impossible for spanish speakers to say. Hopefully, with more lessons I’ll get better at teaching, she’ll learn something, and my belly will be full with tasty Peruvian treats. It’s a win for everybody.

It was also my friends Ginger’s last day in town and we spent it together. We got drunk and she cut my hair. My boss told me I look like Prince, to be fair The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, which I think Im going to take as a compliment.  Picture will hopefully be forthcoming soon and you can judge for yourself. After work we went to Salon Purreydon, the grungiest punk rock club this side of the equator. I did my best to blend in and leaned up against a pillar and subtly nodded my head along to the band. My Prince hairdo didn’t hurt either…