I arrived in Buenos Aires in late August, but it wasn't summer.
The cold evening air didn't do my arthritic right hand any favors.
I didn't care. For the first time since I lost my job, I felt content. My financial situation improved substantially after Alaska. So much so, I felt confident enough to finally book this trip.
The crumbling sidewalks and frequent piles of dog shit made walking around Buenos Aires rather treacherous. Still, I couldn't help admire the city's architecture. It looked more European than Latin American, despite the omnipresent graffiti that transformed the facades into murals and, occasionally, eyesores.
On my way to dinner, I exchanged some money for Argentine pesos. However, a good amount of what I received in return was coins.
Now I had two pockets full of pesos. My pants were so weighed down, every few steps I took, I had to constantly pull them back up.
Beggars could hear me as I walked down the street.
A scruffy-looking man approached me.
“¿De dónde eres?” he asked, with a welcoming smile.
"Oh," I thought, "I know what that means."
"Soy de Estados Unidos," I replied in my elementary survival Spanish.
"¡Bienvenido a Buenos Aires, amigo!" he replied with a grin.
Wow! My first conversation in Spanish with a local. Rick Steves said the locals were friendly, especially if tourists tried to speak their language.
Then, the "Ambassador of Buenos Aires" said something in Spanish that I didn't understand. He spoke too fast. I couldn't comprehend him.
“Lo siento,” I said. “¿Puede hablar más despacio, por favor?”
He spoke again. This time much slower.
Fuck! I still couldn't comprehend what he said. Of course, I couldn't. I barely spoke Spanish!
"¿Hablas inglés?" I asked, pathetically.
"No," he responded.
"Amigo," he said. Then he proceeded to explain himself, but I still didn't understand.
"Lo siento," I replied. "No entiendo."
His countenance changed. He seemed vexed.
He put his left hand on my right shoulder as he walked next to me.
"¡Amigo!," he yelled, as he pulled back his jacket with his right hand. "Mire."
He had something concealed under his shirt. What was it?
We stopped walking.
He looked serious.
What was he saying? What did he want?
Then it dawned on me. He wanted to sell me drugs. Yes, of course! That's it.
"No. No, gracias," I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. "No lo quiero."
He removed his hand from my shoulder, then stood there for moment without saying anything. He just stared at me with an incredulous look.
He spoke loudly. He sounded angry.
“Lo siento,” I replied. “Yo hablo un poco de español.”
He rolled his eyes, shook his head in disbielf and screamed, "¡Jesus Cristo!"
Then he turned away and started to walk down the sidewalk, but not before he turned around and screamed in broken English, "Un-der-stand!"
His face turned red. Veins protruded from his neck.
"Un-der-stand," he screamed again.
"No puedo," I yelled back. "No hablo español."
He threw his arms up, turned around and left. He even drew his leg back and kicked the air.
He continued his tirade as he walked away, periodically turning around to look at me and scream, ‘Un-der-stand!’
Even as the "Ambassador" disappeared into the cold, dark night, I could hear his fading scream from afar, "Un-der-stand!"
I stood there dumbfounded.
What the hell was all that about?
Then I realized ... he wanted to rob me. Duh!
(Yo entiendo.)
I walked a couple more blocks until I came across a quaint-looking Italian restaurant. It was packed, but I managed to get a table. With all the pesos in my pockets, I decided to treat myself. I ordered a bottle of Argentine malbec and a pizza.
While I waited for my order, I noticed all of the well-dressed patrons using silverware to eat their pizza. I had never seen that before.
When my order arrived, my stomach growled. I couldn't wait to dig in. But suddenly, I hesitated. I looked around the dining room. Then I picked up a knife with my injured right hand. As I cut into the pizza crust, I couldn't help but laugh.
