Buenos Dias, Bitches.
Having spent my first two days here orienting myself to the city, early thoughts were that choosing to visit during the rainy season was poor judgment. Like not keeping an extra pair of clean undies in my carry-on. Or that one time in the VIP room with that stripper from the Czech Republic. Her name was something like Dominik, though I don’t know how to spell it and I don’t want to misspell it and make you think it’s a guy’s name. Sounds like, ‘Domineeek;’ She. Who woulda thunk it?
But I had my hoody rain coat. Also, I just so happened to find the best freakin’ coffee shop ever. EVER. They had this drink called the Italian Cappuccino. I had two. Did you know that the Argentinaians put something in their coffee that makes people freak the fu*k out? Yeah. I think it’s imported from the plush green fields of Colombia. I don’t know if they grow speed up there. I don’t even know if you actually grow speed. But somehow I’m missing last Saturday afternoon.
I forgot to tell you last time that I had the privilege of hearing Sally Ride speak last week. She took us through some insanely beautiful pictures from her last shuttle trip and then spent about 30 minutes speaking about young girls and empowerment and how we (you) as an American society let them fall through the cracks somewhere during their pursuit of a scientific future or some bullshit like that. Anyway, first day of class Monday and as I set the tone for the rest of the week, I notice the young 50-something year old woman in the first row to my left with one of the most beautiful set of cans I’ve ever seen. Clearly paid for by her older, balding husband who, based on their test scores, was improbably stupider than his South American, cleavage-bearing life raft of a wife. Not only did this one slip through the cracks, but she must’ve fallen on her head. On the bright side, we ain’t the only ones who marry for looks. Or tactile indulgence.
Now that you’ve got me talking about gigantic jugs, you wouldn’t belieeeeve the steaks down here. Sure, you’ve had an “Argentina Steak.” But have you really, really had an Argentina steak breed and raised in Argentina? I thought not. Let me tell you, they can cook the fu*k out of a cow. They must feed their cows other tender and juicy cows cause man, you don’t even need A1. The other night, I was fist deep in this one tenderloin and I decided to top it with some tomato and onion mix. Biblical Goodness. And like 20 minutes later, there was still this puddle of juice on top of the end of the steak. ON! TOP! OF! Now THAT’S a juicy piece of vaca.
Sit tight, Gringos. Tales of Tango night and the hott Cuban are coming up. . .
Having spent my first two days here orienting myself to the city, early thoughts were that choosing to visit during the rainy season was poor judgment. Like not keeping an extra pair of clean undies in my carry-on. Or that one time in the VIP room with that stripper from the Czech Republic. Her name was something like Dominik, though I don’t know how to spell it and I don’t want to misspell it and make you think it’s a guy’s name. Sounds like, ‘Domineeek;’ She. Who woulda thunk it?
But I had my hoody rain coat. Also, I just so happened to find the best freakin’ coffee shop ever. EVER. They had this drink called the Italian Cappuccino. I had two. Did you know that the Argentinaians put something in their coffee that makes people freak the fu*k out? Yeah. I think it’s imported from the plush green fields of Colombia. I don’t know if they grow speed up there. I don’t even know if you actually grow speed. But somehow I’m missing last Saturday afternoon.
I forgot to tell you last time that I had the privilege of hearing Sally Ride speak last week. She took us through some insanely beautiful pictures from her last shuttle trip and then spent about 30 minutes speaking about young girls and empowerment and how we (you) as an American society let them fall through the cracks somewhere during their pursuit of a scientific future or some bullshit like that. Anyway, first day of class Monday and as I set the tone for the rest of the week, I notice the young 50-something year old woman in the first row to my left with one of the most beautiful set of cans I’ve ever seen. Clearly paid for by her older, balding husband who, based on their test scores, was improbably stupider than his South American, cleavage-bearing life raft of a wife. Not only did this one slip through the cracks, but she must’ve fallen on her head. On the bright side, we ain’t the only ones who marry for looks. Or tactile indulgence.
Now that you’ve got me talking about gigantic jugs, you wouldn’t belieeeeve the steaks down here. Sure, you’ve had an “Argentina Steak.” But have you really, really had an Argentina steak breed and raised in Argentina? I thought not. Let me tell you, they can cook the fu*k out of a cow. They must feed their cows other tender and juicy cows cause man, you don’t even need A1. The other night, I was fist deep in this one tenderloin and I decided to top it with some tomato and onion mix. Biblical Goodness. And like 20 minutes later, there was still this puddle of juice on top of the end of the steak. ON! TOP! OF! Now THAT’S a juicy piece of vaca.
Sit tight, Gringos. Tales of Tango night and the hott Cuban are coming up. . .
