This is pretty cool…
If you go to this link you can see the running route I just created, or just look at the location of our apt. Since we live so close to Los Bosques De Palermo, it is the perfect place for an evening jog… especially with the eye candy (mentioned below). It is usually a bit to warm in the day to run, but in the early evening it is the perfect temperature.
http://www.run.com/showroute.asp?map=313845
Which do you prefer…Transvestites or Mosquitoes?
Emmas lack of vocabulary, or possibly lack of hearing has resulted in a few embarrassing moments.
While in class I was learning about how to describe things I like and dislike about Buenos Aires.
Por ejemplo:
Me gusta la musica (I like the music).
Me encanta tomar mate (I love to drink mate).
Me molestan los mosquitos (I hate the mosquitoes).
During the classroom discussion I thought a classmate said “Me molestan los mosquitos” which by the way I do hate…as there are so many here at this time of year. Let me preface this with a little information about that classmate, David. He is from Montenegro and is a very conservative little dick, who constantly talks about how hot the teacher is and attempts to make jokes in vain. Although he is very annoying I suppose there are some redeeming qualities about him in that he is very energetic and outgoing, which is also why he is a bit annoying… either way, I’ll give it to him. In reality the Montenegrin did not say “me molestan los mosquitos” but rather “me molestan los transvestites”. I really don’t know how I got mosquitoes from transvestites, but unfortunately I did. Under this train of thought I shouted MI TAMBIEN!! as if I had just received the holy spirit. Everyone looked at me as if I were a bit crazy, then I realized too late that he was not talking about mosquitoes at all. At that point everyone thought we were both assholes. I tried quickly to redeem myself by further shouting of NO NO… ME ENCANTAN transvestites, Me molestan los MOSQUITOS! But little less than half of the class was listening to what I was saying; for now I guess I fall under the umbrella of loud/rude/judgmental (or possibly crazy) American.
Anyhow, last night I went running at Los Basques De Palermo, or more accurately: Paseo del Rosedal and as I was running toward the park, which is about 5 blocks from our house, I remembered that at night it is a hub for transvestite prostitutes. Feeling a bit anxious, I continued on my path to the park. Lo and behold I saw many a pretty lady waiting to be picked up. But the good news: there were no mosquitoes, so I was happy.
*** For more on transvestites in Palermo go here:
http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=email_en&refer=latin_america&sid=aeymRmStf96s
Comida norteña—and the rut deepens
We recently posted about our “jenga restaurant” rut, but we need to confess that the “rut” has been re-routed to a little restaurant 2 doors down that serves food from northern argentina (READ- hot sauce). As our regular readers may note (hi mom, dad, and Liz), we have not posted in a few days because we have recently decided that we are going to be more economical… so we have been cooking in more, going out less (well, emma has)*, and gorging ourselves at that local resto. Of course, our attempts at budgeting went out the window on Saturday when we went to a polo match (see emma’s entry to come).
However, this local restaurant, which we have now been to countless times and take up witty banter with the owner, makes us feel like we are saving some money- they have tamales, locro (a corn soup), empanadas, and pizza for just a few pesos. We also learned a bit more about the owner our last visit- he is a model. Of course, he is a 50-something- year-old model that looks like he hasn’t had work since the mid-1980s, but we were privileged enough to see some of the photos books he has been in. Our decidedly favorite shot is one of him staring straight ahead, wearing a suit- and stabbing himself in the chest.
That’s all for now… we are off to the restaurant!
* Last night we hung out with some American friend’s from cam’s class at a bar called “Congo.”
