Christmas in Kiev and the Fear of War

This is my friend Roma, hungover and waiting for my taxi to arrive in the lobby of his apartment building on Kyiv's left bank, about 30 minutes from the city center. It was Orthodox Christmas morning.

I met Roma and his friends the night before at a 24-hour sushi and pizza place called MAFIA Україна. The restaurant was conveniently about a block from my hotel, on the principal thoroughfare of the city, Khreshchatyk Street. The name was hilarious, and the menu and decor were so over the top that it was hard to tell whether this was satire or not. It wasn't. 

I dined alone, but as I was eating I saw a sign with an arrow pointing towards a staircase. It simply said "Karaoke" in red neon lights. After paying my well-priced tab for what was unmistakably good sushi and Neopolitan pizza, I headed down. 

In the basement, there was a small room, about the size of a high school classroom, with a parquet dance floor squarely at its center. Around the room were cheap tables, and event chairs, with mirrored walls and a disco ball in the center light fixture. There was a DJ booth by the stairs. 

I sat at a table alone and panned the room. There were two men at a table across the room from me. They were around my age (mid-30s) with dress clothes untucked as if they'd left work and hadn't returned yet. It was maybe 11PM. 

In the corner of the room was a table of about 4-5 girls and 3 guys. Roma was sitting there. They all looked like they were in their early 20s, and all of them had liters of local beer in front of them. They looked like a lot of fun, and the girls were gorgeous. I sent over a round of beer for the table. 

The DJ knew I was a non-Ruso-speaking foreigner and he cracked jokes at my expense. I knew because the two off-duty suits laughed at me and pointed, and the DJ mixed in some English words in a teasing, kind of smarmy tone. I fired back with some drunk barbs in English about fucking their mothers. The suits didn't understand, the DJ did (he grinned) and 1/3 of the other table erupted in laughter. "Dude, come over man!" said Roma. I obliged, and he thanked me for the beers. 

Roma and one of the girls spoke English and spoke it fluently. They were huge hip-hop fans and actually performed on a karaoke circuit in Kyiv. They flawlessly sang Ludacris, Eminem, Dre, and other classic songs without looking at the lyrics on the screen. The suits sang Ukrainian and Russian hits that gave us time to talk and drink. 

After god knows how many drinks, we decided to split. The snow was pouring down in blizzard conditions, and it was about 3:30AM. Roma asked me if I wanted to come to their after-party at his place. He lived with the two other guys. I said "sure", not knowing where I'd be going, or how I'd get back to the hotel. 

We jumped in a small Russian-made car and practically slid through the snow-covered empty streets of early Christmas morning Kyiv. After about 15 minutes we started crossing a bridge. I panicked a bit because I saw the lights of the city behind me, and I had no idea where we were going. If I got let out of the car I'd be on an empty bridge outside of Kyiv, Ukraine, on Christmas, in the snow, with no ability to read or speak the language. 

My fears subsided as we reached the other side. Once there, we entered what I can only describe as a dystopian, communist urbanscape. Row after row of 25-story buildings lined perfectly symmetric avenues as far as the eyes could see. We parked in front of one of them and got out to get groceries at the 24-hour store. Inside, I offered to pay for anything and everything, as the currency had buckled and a basket of groceries would cost me less than dinner in Panama. We bought a bottle of brandy, vodka, peach nectar, cheese, cigarettes, and some locally-made Dorito rip-offs. 

Up in the tower, we sat at a kitchen table and drank. We banged the table like a beatbox so the guys could rap in Ukrainian. We ripped warm shot after shot of vodka, then mixed the brandy with warm peach nectar. The cheese and chips were gone within 10 minutes of sitting down. The girls split after a few rounds, and it was just me and the boys. Roma was translating for me. They told me they were all in the Ukrainian military and out on rotation from the eastern front (Donetsk, I believe). 

I remember being drunk and speaking with bravado as if I too could relate to them. I couldn't, but I didn't know what else to say. The boys told me more about school, and about getting paid to study in Kyiv. The apartment was also paid for by the military, which is why they shared it. None of them grew up there. I can't remember where they grew up, though. We were so wasted we started playing the knife and hand game, which quickly faded to looking for more chips, to no avail. 

By the time 6AM rolled around, I knew I'd have to crash there and crash soon. Roma gave me his room, and he grabbed a blanket and pillow to sleep on a small couch in the tenement hallway. The apartment was bare, but his room had hip-hop posters covering each wall. Looked like many of the rooms I slept in growing up. I woke up about 5 hours later with one of the worst hangovers ever. I looked out the tower window and saw a blanket of snow. I needed to get "home", but had no clue how. 

I woke Roma up on the couch and asked what I could do. He called a taxi company and set me up. He escorted me down to the lobby, waiting for the cab. He went with me into the cab to pay the fixed rate (about $3 USD) and told the driver to text him as soon as we reached my hotel. He said the same to me, and we dapped up and said goodbye. 

Slushing back over the bridge into Kyiv I felt like I would vomit. My head pounded but when I saw the city getting closer I got the rush that all travelers get when they finish a small adventure. I felt like I did Kyiv as good as one could do Kyiv in a snowstorm on Christmas eve. As we approached my hotel on Khreshchatyk Street, I saw a McDonald's. I asked the driver to stop and let me out. 

I wanted a hangover burger, Christmas be damned. He didn't understand me and refused with his finger, taking me right to the hotel and calling Roma while I was in the car. I was so stubborn that I got out, walked back to the McDonald's, and ordered a black bread Bic Mac, hash browns, and two coffees. The only people in Mac D's on Christmas were me and some middle eastern men, who I assume were Muslim and not celebrating the holiday. 

I washed down the meal as anyone would with a hangover, feeling guilty after, and making a B-line straight for bed at the hotel. I never saw Roma again, and I hope that he, his friends, and his family are OK. 

I'm sure he's fighting on the front as we speak, with the boys from the tower, and hopefully still alive.

Why I Love Brazilians

Tonight the US Soccer team takes on Brazil in their first international match since the World Cup. I'm pretty sure no one cares around here, but playing Brazil in soccer is always a challenge, always fun to watch, and always garners some sort of attention. But enough about the beautiful game. It got me thinking. I don't think I've ever met a Brazilian I didn't like. Seriously. In a nutshell, here's why:

Brazilians are fun, period. Poor, rich, black, or white, they often have these perma-grins, and a bounce around their day to day life as if they were at a party 24/7. It's hard to get a Brazilian to stand still, or even be quiet. Outside of the Chinese, Israelis, and Americans, they're pretty much the loudest people on earth. But unlike the uncomfortable screams of the multi-tonal Chinese language, and the retarded banter between two 20-year-old girls from equally uninteresting parts of California, Brazilian noise is almost always made in a celebratory tone. And man, do they like to celebrate.

I remember being in Punta del Este about three years ago with an American friend of mine who likes to party. We stayed in a hostel that every tourist does, called 1949, and bunked up with a group of about 15 Southern Brazilians. In one day, as my friend and I popped in and out of the ocean, taking naps, site seeing, eating, and stopping for the occasional beer, the hostel Brazilians did only two things: drink beer, and dance. Without exaggerating, I would estimate that between the 15 of them, they took on close to 200 liters of Brahma in a 15 or 16 hour period. They also had a boombox with them wherever they went, blasting heavy electro samba beats or 80s hair metal exclusively. I'm not sure if they even ate. But the greatest thing about this group was that they didn't stop. We went to bed before them, 2am, and were woken up by them. Doing what? You guessed it. Drinking beer and dancing. This time playing their own bongo drums, and chasing the suds with Marlboro reds and tropical fruits. This was at 7am.

Another great thing about Brazilians is that they agitate Argentines for all the right reasons. The soccer rivalry is fun, but it's lame to actually take that seriously outside of just being a game. Argentines take this too seriously because while being a dominant force in the region, they are usually on the losing end when up against Brazil. It's kind of like the Red Sox/Yankees rivalry. "Close but no cigar" is annoying as fuck when your rival owns a case of cigars, and "close" is a word rarely thought of.

There's also this weird Argentine/Brazilian rivalry based on Brazil's recent economic success. Argentines won't admit this, because they used to look at Brazilians as the fun, but poor and struggling neighbor. Argentines used to tout their wealth in Buzios and Rio in the summer, taking advantage of a strong currency, and an open tourist economy. Now, with the Argentine peso floundering, and the Argentine tourism economy holding together a large portion of the local wealth, the tables have turned. Literally.

Not that the Argies don't still fill the beaches in Buzios, or haggle for fresh coconut milk on the sands of Ipanema, but the percentage of Brazilians visiting their country has grown exponentially in recent years. Also, with the Brazilian Real slowly climbing towards 1 to 1 with the US dollar, and the peso sinking into the 4s, Brazilians have massive spending power abroad. And they know it.

It's kind of like if when a fat shy guy hits the gym and becomes all confident. His attitude changes, he starts getting chicks, he dresses better. You're happy for him as a friend, but deep down you kind of hate the douchebag he's turned into, and the fact that he's scoring more, and looks better than you do. This is kind of like the relationship between Argentines and Brazilians economically. They come to Buenos Aires wearing garish gold jewelry and gaudy Italian designer attire, breezing through shopping malls and bars with the economic ease of a gringo or Japanese tourist. But they do it in Portuguese, a language different enough to confuse the average Argentine, but similar enough to aggravate them that they don't know even a word in Spanish.

That's another thing. The language. I love hearing Brazilians speak Portuguese. If ever a language represented a people in it's sound, phrases, and natural cadence, it's Portuguese with Brazilians. The language bounces, with multi-tonal phrases that ebb and flow almost seamlessly with the sentiment of the speaker. They also have an incredibly hard time pronouncing other languages without their own style of speech and accent. In Boston, "Red Sox" becomes "Heggie Sockies", and my personal favorite, "Big Mac" becomes "Biggie Mackie". It's an endearing and honest way of speaking, and it's fun. Much better than listening to an Argentine say "Sprite", or a Gringo trying to pronounce the term "Horarios" correctly.

Lastly, they're fucking HOT. While physically speaking, most Brazilians don't have the slender or smooth physique of an Argentine, or Southern European. But what they lack in slenderness, they make up in shape. Brazilian booty is legendary, and with good reason. The women are shaped, and round, and tan. They walk with a confident swagger, and they have very few body issues when it comes to being exposed. You can almost feel the energy from a Brazilian woman even before you make eye contact with her, and while they often tend to overdue it with the make up and accessories, you seldom hear them talking about how fat they are, or why they need a better nose, or smaller chin. I say, more power to them.

All this being said, however, go team USA. But I still love you guys.

Top 5 Places to Pick up an Argenhot

If you've followed this site at all-and the sparcity of posts may have inspired you to call it quits-you may have read the guide to dating Argenhots. But dating an Argenhot means nothing if you don't know where to go to meet them, and why these places work. Here's a list of 5 of the best spots around the city to meet the Argenhot of your dreams. In no particular order:

1) Starbucks: Yeah, they're a multi-national, illuminati, soul-less, indigenous farm crushing corporation. But damn, they make a hell of a coffee. Argenhots love this place. Why? Because in Argentina, Starbucks is a luxury. There are very few of them, and the prices are so inflated that some of their coffees are the cost equivalent to 20% of your average worker's daily wage. Argenhots like to feel special, chic, and cultured. Starbucks gives them all of these things, plus a staff of soft-spoken gay men, blended sweet fruity drinks, and comfy chairs.

The strategy is simple. When you order your drink, do it in the WORST Spanish possible. Chances are that these girls are rich, studied English for most of their lives, have grown tired of Argentine men, and have no foreign friends. They will immediately pick up on your shitty accent, shoot you a stare, and talk to you. Rely on the slowness and ineptitude of the Starbucks staff to give you about 5-8 minutes of chat time with your Argenhot as you wait for your coffee. If you don't have a number, e-mail, or a facebook invite by the time that 18-peso latte is ready, then move on. It sounds shady, but you can do this multiple times a day, if you can handle all that caffeine.

2) UADE Business School: Believe it or not, Buenos Aires has a pretty good business school (insert joke here). The UADE campus is made up of a few bleak-looking buildings smashed together on the corner of the world's widest avenue, 9 de Julio. It lacks any outdoor space set aside exclusively for its students. What this means is that when they're not in class, UADE students flood the steps and giant sidewalk partition in front of the school. Depending on the time of day, it can look like an outdoor cocktail mixer full of driven, confident, middle-class 21-year-olds. There are also a ton of cafes and shady choripan places lining the surrounding streets, so you don't have to feel like a creeper that lurches around a school to pick up women.

The strategy here is a bit more complicated than Starbucks, and is only for inermediate to upper-intermediate Argenhotters. An Argentine business degree has very little international pull, so most of these students will not speak English, nor will they think your goofy foreign accent is cute. If you can't speak good conversational Spanish, forget it. You're best bet here is to approach with a beer or a joint. Deep inner insecurity and the overwhelming pressure to constantly succeed makes business students some of the biggest drinkers and recreational drug users on the planet. And this is universal, no matter what country. Weed is decriminalized in BA, and no one cares if you have an open beer out in public on a sunny afternoon. Go right up to someone, offer what you got, and tell them you were waiting on some friends, but they bailed, and you wanted to check out the scene around the school. These types of Argenhots like to talk about themselves a lot. If you can get past that, and the beer will help, you should have a pretty good chance of stretching after-school beers into a night on the town.

3) Retiro Station: Retiro is the central bus and train terminal for Buenos Aires, which essentially makes it the ground transportation hub of the entire country. The station is massive, and is split by an outdoor walkway filled with burger and beer kiosks that blast cumbia, Nigerian jewelry salesmen, and knock-off clothing vendors. It's a cavalcade of sound, language, and most importantly, diversity. People from all over the country converge here to either depart, arrive, or sell their wares to those doing both. The type of Argenhot here is the polar opposite of Starbucks girl, but just as gorgeous, only in a different way. If dark skin, smoothe black hair, and round deep eyes are your thing, this is your place.

The strategy here is a bit tricky. First off, this is not the safest place in the world, so make sure you're aware of your surroundings. Do NOT talk to someone's sister, or any girl who seems to be hanging around a bunch of guys. This is not the Buenos Aires you see on post cards. Most of these Argenhots are from the poorest parts of the country, and the men tend to be very posessive, old fashioned, and have a palpable disdain for foreigners. Look for an Argenhot that's working at one of the bars or burger shops, and be direct. Tell her you love her eyes, that you're not from around there (which will be blatantly obvious), and ask her about where she's from. Remember, she's most likely Argentine, but not Porteña. Play off the commonality of being an outsider in a big crazy city. Pretend you like cumbia, and if she works in a restaurant or bar, TIP. This will go a long way, and trust me, it's worth it. These women are some of the most beautiful in the country.

4) La Bomba de Tiempo: This one almost didn't make the list, as it is packed with foreigners, and annoying hostel hippies. If you aren't familiar with "La Bomba", I'll break it down. It's an outdoor acoustic percussion rave held every Monday in a place called Ciudad Konex. Picture the party scene from the Matrix 2, but with a bit less people. This place is FULL of dancing, drinking, stoned Argenhotness. These Argenhots could also be catagorized as Argenhippies, but don't let that fool you, they're still still as hot as that little princess from Recoleta who hates Dad and starts her mornings with a valume and a good cry. Argenhippies tend to look like what a hippie chick would look like in a movie if she was played by Jessica Alba. Unbelievable as a character, but you don't care, you live in suspended disbelief.

You've got a 50/50 shot at finding some form of an English speaker. The great thing is, it doesn't matter whether you do or don't. Most of these girls are creative, artistic, and most of all, fun. Talk about music, art, how much you hate pretentious girls, and why you love Buenos Aires. Or, just shut the fuck up and dance. Everyone else is. Avoid talking politics at all costs, especially if you're from the US. This will never end well, and at best case scenario will cause a lot of awkward tension. Keep it light, fun, and creative. There's always an after party, so wait 'til then to make your move. And yes, in this country, the hippies shave!

5) Alto Palermo Shopping Center: This place is perfect for those of you who prefer older Argenhots. Like a fine malbec, many Argenhots get better with age. This is especially true in Palermo, where many of the women are wealthy and don't work, giving them lots of time to stay healthy, but also causing them to be bored out of their mind. Buenos Aires has an extremely high percentage of single women over 40. My theory is that this comes from many women marrying early out of family pressure, and divorcing in their mid-30's when they realize it was the wrong decision. Also, infidelity is huge down here, and that is a big marriage destroyer. For whatever reason, this modern mall is full of bored rich women looking to fill the void of their lack of a purpose with lingerie from Caro Cuore, facial cremes, bags, and shoes.

Don't try to slick-talk these Argenmilfs. It won't work. Think of them as the older version of Starbucks girl. Chances are, they've traveled extensively, own their own apartment (and maybe even a beach house on the coast), and have dreams of one day moving to Barcelona or New York. Your game needs to be really tight to even come close to breaking through to one of these women. Avoid talking about your petty achievements, they're not impressed. Talk about what book you're currently reading, what kind of things interest you as a person, and why you are either visiting or living in Argentina. Don't be intimidated. They can smell fear. Good luck, and have fun.

Memorable Quotes from 2009

It's been a while since my last post, but being out of Argentina has given me a lot of time to think about some of the funnier things people have said to me or I've overheard over the past year or so. In honor of my first post of 2010, here's a list of the best quotes that I can remember. Enjoy:



Me: "Donde esta calle Paraguay?", Clerk: "Para que?", Me: "Paraguay", Clerk: "Para, no entiendo."

Diego: "I need you to pick up a package from the Israeli embassy in NY", Me: "Why? What is it?", Diego: "Don't worry about why. We'll just say it's a wrist watch."

Anonymous: "You're stupid for carrying weed on you. It's really easy to get busted.", Me: "But you've got 4 grams of coke in your pocket!!!", Anonymous: "Yeah, but if I get stopped I can swallow it quicker and there's no smell."

Evil Flor: "Can you buy me a Jansport bag when you go back to the US?", Me: "You threw me out on the street, made me homeless, and started dating a customer of mine. And you want me to do you a favor?", Evil Flor: "Never mind. I didn't think you paid attention to little details. I'll get one online."

Fernando: "Este no es un Chino. Es Japones", Me: "Por que?", Fernando: "Porque los Japoneses tienen ojos mas Chino que los Chinos, viste?"

Pepe: "Buenos Aires tiene la mejor pizza del mundo. Es la verdad. Me fui a Sweden."

Mini Flor: "I like you, but I'm not sexually attracted to you. It's not that I won't have sex with you, but it's going to take a while. Can I buy you a beer at least?"

Yenon: "I been to your country to work. Very different than Israel.", Me: "Where did you go? What did you do?", Yenon: "I lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Sold Dead Sea salt to fat black women who yelled a lot.", Me: "How was that?", Yenon: "Traumatic."

Brendan: "I tried to find you at the bar last night, but you guys were closed early.", Me: "So what did you do instead?", Brendan: "Some Venezuelan guy payed me to get naked on film and dance around with some whores in a club nearby. I think I punched the Muppet and then blacked out. You guys should stay open later on Thursday."

Fernando: "I'm a communist, so of course I support Chavez, Morales, and all of the leaders who support the rights of the people and the workers.", Me: "What about Kim Jong Il?", Fernando: "Who's that?"

Me: "I have to leave work a bit early tonight.", Diego: "Why?", Me: "There's a Colombian locked in my room, and I want to make sure she has enough water."

Bar Customer: "I hate America. No, really, I do. I even cheered on 9/11. But you seem pretty cool. You have facebook?"

Marcelo: "Do they eat chicken in the US?"

American Hostel Hippie: "You know that bag of Doritos you're eating represents everything that's wrong with corporate consumerism penetrating the developing countries in Latin America?" Me: "Dude, you travel with a desktop computer and a 23-inch monitor." American Hostel Hippie: "Yeah, but only so I can blog about economic and social inequality. I serve a purpose."

Lisa: "I swear to God, in Germany, the salt is much saltier."

Semester Abroad Student: "They suck at speaking Spanish down here, man. Trust me, I'm from California."

Me: "Your boobs are fantastic." Anonymous: "I know. My Grandma bought them for me."


That's all for now. Happy New Year.

Cops and Robbers

I should have never went for orange juice. It runs through your head, over and over, like a broken record. I could have stayed at home. I could have gone without it. I could have picked another supermarket. I could have just said hi and left. But life doesn't work like that. Life can't be managed in the past. You make decisions in the moment and live with the consequences. That's life. On Sunday morning, my craving for Citric brand orange juice cost me a whole lot more than the $6.50 pesos sticker price. It cost me $450 pesos, a bit of my pride, and a hard-learned lesson about corruption, poverty, nationalism, and depravity. Ironically, I never even got the OJ.

It rained torrentially on Saturday night. It was the type of rain that happens in Buenos Aires during the spring. The type of rain that falls in streams rather than drops. The kind that floods streets, closes subway lines, and stimeys even the toughest of car winshield wipers. We closed the bar early because of it. After a quick game of darts and a trip to Burger King, my night was almost over. My friend Louis and I headed back to San Telmo just as the day, and the rain began to break. What had started out as an ugly Saturday had transformed into a beautiful Sunday morning. The outdoor Feria, or open market, was being set up piece by piece, as it always is on Sundays. The trees were green with week's worth of heavy rain and there was an odd silence in the streets. It was kind of like a tranquil calm before the storm of 4,000 tourists were to fill the streets. You would be a fool not to want to walk around and enjoy this type of morning. Even if you had been up working all night. So Louis and I did just that. We took a walk.

After a few quick passes of the plaza, a half of a joint, and some debate over whether or not pigeons could fly more than a few yards at a time, we decided to pack it in for the night. I knew I was thirsty, but a half joint will do that to you, so I really thought nothing of it. We got into the house and Louis went to his room directly. As the door shut on the basement room door, I had second thoughts. OJ. Fresh squeezed, no sugar added, delicious. Why the fuck not. It was 8:30am. The only place I knew where to get it was just opening, and a mere 3 blocks from my house. So I made a u-turn and walked to the store.

I got to the supermarket, doors just opening. Jackpot. I would be in OJ heaven within a matter of minutes. Then I heard my name called, loudly, from across the street. It was my roommate Jose, a bone-skinny 18-year-old Ecuadorian film student with a penchant for drinking, and a bad habbit of being a loud drunk. I couldn't ignore it, so I crossed. Jose was at the door of a 24-hour hamburger joint. These are pretty typical down here. It's generally a rough crowd that hangs there in the early morning, especially on weekends. They serve beer, cheap food, and most importantly, NEVER CLOSE. If the steel bars surrounding the food counter don't immediately turn you off, the smell of piss and the sight of sleeping drunks, whores, and lost-looking hippie travelers should. Almost as soon as I entered, Jose was kicked out by security for being too rowdy. "Security", and I use the term loosely, was man in his mid 20s, average built, with a shitty blue uniform and a police issued nightstick.

As I turned to make my exit and go back to the supermarket I heard my name again. "Andy, my friend!" yelled a short, well-groomed dark-skinned man dressed in a tuxedo jacket and pants, no tie in sight, and a white undershirt unbuttoned almost half way. It was Wilbur, a Peruvian man who works as a waiter in the plaza. I had met him 3 months earlier, ironically, in this very place. He's a fixture in the neighborhood, and one of those guys who remembers names, faces, where you're from, and what you do for work. He's quite remarkable in that sense, actually. Wilbur waived me to join him at one of the plastic picnic-esque tables that lined the sides of th walls near the windows. I obliged and pulled up a seat.

At the table with Wilbur were two girls, most likely in their mid-20s, and gorgeous. The skinnier one was from France. She had that look too. I knew she wasn't from around here. The shorter, darker girl was from Puerto Rico. They looked like they had been partying, but in a place like that, everyone did, including me. They had beer. Once again, I obliged. We were about halfway into our second glass, and the French girl's third cigarette, when Wilber motioned to the slender one to accompany him to the bathroom. Now, as a bartender, and a street-smart person in general, I knew exactly what that meant. Unfortunately, so did the security officer. As he glared down the aisle towards the bathroom he feverishly sent a text message and motioned towards the manager. In Argentina, cocaine is relatively cheap, plentiful, and unfortunately an all-too-normal thing to do at 9am after a heavy Saturday. I paid it no mind and started talking baseball with the Puerto Rican.

Within minutes of Wilbur's return, two P.F.A (Argentine Federal Police) patrol cars pulled up in front. My first thought was "sucks to be you Wilbur". He had witnesses, but he didn't seem to be phased. I gave the French girl a look as if to say, "you too". She was stone-faced. I will admit, however, that I felt a tinge of fear. You get used to that down here. The police have never rubbed me the right way, and as a foreigner, you can never be too careful. We've all heard of nightmare scenarios with police. Corruption, extortion, physical abuse, threats, planting evidence. This is an unfortunate side effect of a police force that is grossly underpaid, has very few checks and balances, and has a reputation for being dirty. As the two uniformed officers approached the table, I noticed that they weren't looking at the girls at all. They were looking directly at me and Wilbur. My nightmare had just started, and I already knew that this wouldn't end in a hand shake and an apology.

We were ordered to stand up and move to the back of the restaurant. The girls stayed at the table, and Wilbur and I went to a darker corner of the room, no windows. By the time we reached the wall, 2 officers had turned into 8. Four were in flac jackets, the others in plain uniform. One of them seemed to be the captain, but I couldn't really tell. The next ten minutes was like the movie "Groundhog Day". "Do you have any coke", the officer kept asking me. "No", I repeated over and over. I emptied my pockets about 5 times. Each time a different officer. I removed my shirt as well. Had my mouth searched and my pants shaken. Over and over this continued.

The officers did the same to Wilbur, had a bit of a huddle, and brought him into the bathroom. I asked if I could go and was promptly denied. Within minutes I was flagged into the hall where the bathrooms were. The bathroom hall looked exactly as you would expect it to in a place like this. The smell of urine was unbareable. The only light came from a solitary red light hanging from the ceiling. There was green mold draping the walls like it was painted there. Wilbur was in a stall with the biggst officer. He ordered me in. I panicked, and said no, trying to justify my innocence. Before he even processed his response, the other officer kicked me in the back of the knees. I fell fast. It took my breath. I was pulled up and shoved in the 5-by-5 stall.

Officer big man told me we would both be booked for cocaine posession. I gave him a look like he knew I was innocent and he was fucking with me. He didn't care. He said we were together, and that Wilbur was merely holding the coke for me. We all knew this wasn't true, including Wilbur, but the officer was fine with his story. He asked me if I'd ever been to an Argentine jail. I said no, as I've never been to any jail. He told me that if I didn't want to go he needed a favor. Money. Wilbur's pockets had been searched. Nothing. My pockets were filled with my weeks salary. Roughly $450 pesos after the Burger King and taxi costs. They knew how much I had. I had emptied my pockets a mere 10 minutes earlier. I tried to give him $100, but it didn't work. He reached in my pockets and took it all. Then he told us to leave seperately, not look back, and not be seen for the rest of the day. If I hung around, he said it would cost my legs. I didn't argue.

The walk home was short, but one of the longest ones I've ever taken in my life. "I hate it here", "I hate police", "I hate Wilbur", "I hate San Telmo". It all swished around my head like a bad dream. A confusion of anger, sadness, and the horrendous feeling of being violated. I didn't even notice that the Feria had started. No green trees, no pigeon talks, no OJ. Sleep felt good, and I settled in pretty well. I had to go back to work in a few hours, and I couldn't afford to be in a bad mood.

And so it was. I had my first real experience with police corruption. It was my first taste of what I'm sure thousands of people go through each year. In an eerie way, that actually helped me cope. I was unlucky, but certainly not an anomaly. I tried to think of it like an Argentine would. Wake up, smile, go about your life, and appreciate the good moments in your day. Move on. Hey, at least on the bright side, it made the ousting of my beloved Red Sox from the playoffs a bit easier to swallow. Life is short. I never want to forget that.

Bar Rules 101: Argentine Edition

The theme is real simple. You go out to a bar for a variety of reasons. You go to socialize, drink your pain away, celebrate, get laid, listen to music, dance, or maybe just to get out of the house. No matter how you cut it, the underlying theme is that people to bars to have fun and escape what would seem to be the underwhelming normalcy of their day-to-day grind. But once you dim the lights, crank the tunes, and get the sauce flowing, people behave in very strange ways. Most of the time, you as bargoers don't even realize this. But you know who does? Bar workers. That's right. The people who serve you drinks, listen to your stories, flirt with you, and occasionally kick you out or clean up your puke. So, as one of the aforementioned workers, I've decided to put together a list of common mistakes made by you, the customer, as well as some varying groups of typically horrible customers. Don't worry, we all have our douchey bar moments we wish we could take back. Maybe this will help you stop before you become "that guy" or "that girl".

Here it goes:

The Yeller: This is one of the greatest ways to make a bartender angry. Yelling at the top of your lungs when everyone can hear you perfectly. Alcohol kind of has the same effect on your inner volume as listening to headphones while trying to talk to someone. You can barely hear yourself, but the rest of us want to stab you in the larynx with a dull pencil.

Whistling and Snapping: Snapping and whistling is a good way to never get served a drink. And don't tell me it's cultural. You know what else is cultural? Female circumcision in parts of Africa. It doesn't make it right, scumbag. I am not a dog, nor am I "boy", "kid", "boss", or "chief". Next time try making eye contact with your server, and motioning in a polite way that you'd like something. Your mother should have taught you this, but in lieu of her knowledge, learn by reaction.

The Playboy: Now, this is a tricky one, because these guys can usually make your bar shitloads of money. A playboy is a guy who usually goes to a series of the same bars regularly with the sole purpose of scoring pussy. They're not always good looking, but they ALWAYS have money. The problem is that if you don't have a vagina, the Playboy gets a bit too alpha-male and often gets aggressive with other male customers and staff. Also, the Playboy often comes off as creepy or too aggressive, which can have a negative effect on your female clientele or staff. Which brings me to my next point...

Hitting on the Bartender: Sorry girls, but this is a double standard. Deal with it. As a bartender/customer for around 8 years, I can safely say that I've never walked into a bar and picked up the female bartender. Does it happen? Yes. Is it common? No. Believe it or not, most female bartenders I know have boyfriends. If they don't, they usually have rules about dating/fucking customers. Just because she's nice to you doesn't mean she wants to fuck you. She gets paid to be nice to you. Male bartenders on the other hand are typically whores for easy chicks. Sorry, but it's a double standard. What can I say. But when little miss C-cup with daddy issues and an effinity for making rash decisions wants to slosh around with the guy that made them a strong daquiri, it's kind of hard to say no. Sexist? Maybe a little. Don't believe me? Give it a try.

The Freeloader: No one likes a freeloader in any realm of their life, but in bars, freeloading scumbags are an epidemic. There's usually one in every group. The guy that never buys a round. You know him, don't you? Shit, you may even be him. The freeloader in a group sense rarely bothers the bar staff. After all, they're poaching free drinks off your dumb ass, not off us. However, the freeloader that makes our blood boil the most is the one that rolls in solo, buys 1 or 2 drinks, and expects a night full of free piss. In almost ANY other industry these people don't exist. But there's something about a bar (mainly alcohol and social looseness) that inspires cheapness and undeserved self importance. Of course I understand the concept of volume-based business and discounts, but most of you freeloaders are just plain old fucking greedy. EVERY bartender tosses out a free beer or two, but it's usually because you deserve it, and never because you ask for it.

The Showoff Tipper: Everyone loves tips. That is not an opinion either. It's a fact. Think about it. If someone gave you extra money for working hard, being polite, or just because they're in a generous mood, would you say no? Of course not. That being said, some people step over the line with the manner in which they tip. Flashing around your cash and showing the rest of the bar exactly how much more generous you are is pretty corney. Don't get me wrong. We will smile and take the money, but it's still lame. It's kind of like the bar equivalent of men with small penises reving up the engine to their red sports car around women to show them who's boss. We know who the big tippers are without saying anything. And we respect and treat them well. Being flashy about tipping is an attempt to draw attention to YOU, and less about showing your appreciation for the service.

Part 2 Coming Soon...

Passport Wins

I'm the last person you should ever listen to about relationships and picking up girls but since you're reading this you're not really listening, yeah? So read this:

The first trip I took to BsAs I didn't party all that much the first couple of weeks, I was too culture shocked to really get into it. The first time I really went out big was after I gave a speech at the game industry conference they have down here, EVA. I gave my speech in english to a standing ovation and then rocked out to dinner and drinks in Recoleta with the VIPs from Sony and the top 4 people in the local industry. Everything was paid for, it was baller as hell. After that the Sony people wanted to know where the party was at so my local amigos took them to Crobar. The Sony expense account was charged a couple hundred dollars to reserve a VIP table with a few hundred pesos worth of drink credit. I stood looking over the dance floor and told my friend "I feel like a demon god."

I went around trying to dance with some girls, they were kinda doing their own thing and that got me nowhere. So I was sitting back drinking and my man Chilkowski who runs NGD Studios told me "we have a saying here, let me see if I can translate it. The wallet kills the stud, but the passport kills the wallet."

"No entiendo," I said.

"Speak english."

It was just that simple.

So I went around speaking english to different girls. And I started getting e-mails, if I had a cell phone at the time they would have been phone numbers. I would go up, project a good onda and say "how y'all doin?"

"Oh, where are you from?"

"Why, the good 'ol U, S and A."

"Oh what part of the USA?"

"Like, California." (Seemed like the best State to rep, I'm not really from California.)

"Oh I love California! My dream is to go work in fashion in Los Angeles."

"Yeah I've been to LA a bunch of times, hell of a city."

It was easy. The english, to a large subset of argentinas, is like a hot knife melting through any of the typical reservations from talking with a stranger. There was a time when being American was like a shining badge of hope; and I've heard stories of what Russia was like for expats earlier this decade, or east Asia. These days America has pretty well done shot its global image and the attitude is interested for sure, but more from a point of novelty rather than admiration. None of that history really matters though, its still the ultimate opener.

Lots of guys figure this out early in their time here and they fall on it like a crutch. The truth is you have to speak some spanish, the more the better. English is a great opener but its only sustainable with only one of fifty girls who really know the language. And being foreign definitely doesn't give you full license to be a total dick, you just have to be less of a dick than the typical argentino.

I say, lets cross-pollinate cultures to the max.