We’ve been in Argentina for, well…hell. The trip must be going well so far, as I have already lost track of how long I have been here and just what day it is. As it stands, Elaine has yet to leave me for a swarthy tango dancer (although the night is still young by Argentine standards), and I just barely managed to escape potentially permanent incarceration for that incident with the governor’s daughter and the goat. This probably has less to do with my charm and good travel juju and more to do with the exchange rate in Argentina. I handed the governor a five spot and managed to procure both his daughter’s once sullied honor and a new annex for American studies at the local library.

Buenos Aires is a beautiful city – bustling and noisy and warm. A strange merger of Miami and San Francisco, with both wonderful turn of the century buildings and the same, unremarkable concrete apartment complexes common in nearly every South American metropolis. The streets are crowded and noisy during the day, cooking under the light of the South American summer and the heat from the countless busses and taxis congesting the narrow streets. The boulevards are lined with giant trees – the town is remarkably green. More than I expected. However it is still suffering the effects of a difficult economy as many of the potentially wonderful parks and plazas are in serious need of repair. Graffiti is sadly just as common here as everywhere with a large population of disenfranchised youth, but the original charm of the community still manages to shine through.

We are staying in a little hotel downtown, a relatively short walk from most everywhere, and next door to the headquarters for the local communist organization, and across the street from “The Pelvis Show” nudie bar. Those commies definitely know how to, uh, party. We originally chose this place for cost, but once we discovered the value of our dollar here, I was tempted first to upgrade to a better property, but then decided just to purchase the place outright. The soon to be renovated Mighty Parisian opens in July. Empty out the change bucket in your car and you probably have enough for a suite.

The rumors of Argentines as shockingly beautiful people is, sadly, a myth. Sure, there are a few supermodels lurking in Recoletta, but generally, Buenos Aries is filled with people who look exactly as you would expect for a country raised on beef and tobacco. Basically, they look a lot like us. Only less blonde. And with far fewer fake boobs. They are however, very friendly and near saintly in their patience with this obnoxious traveler who is frequently reduced to communicating through grunting, pointing, and potentially obscene gestures. I learned long ago that speaking English loudly and slowly does nothing for their comprehension, however, if I speak the only Spanish I know, namely numbers and letters, loudly and slowly, people look at me like I am retarded and I generally get whatever I want.

Dining here has been surprisingly easy for this vegetable killer, although not so easy on my arteries. The Italian influence in Argentina is perhaps no more apparent than in the pizzerias that find a home on every street corner. I swear all this dairy is going right to my hips.

As it stands, by far the most interesting place I have been is the famous cemetery in Recoletta. A massive walled complex of sometimes towering, frequently ostentatious crypts and memorials to Argentina’s most elite. It’s a gorgeous if sobering experience, and full testament to the hubris of man in his vain effort to extend his life by glamorizing his death. It was an amazing experience, and perhaps one of the most unique and interesting places I have ever visited, but I still maintain that in the event of my untimely demise as a result of a tragic penguin mauling, my death should be celebrated by only the worms, and the memory of my life is honored most simply by living your own, as completely as I would should I manage to escape the crypt.

We plan to leave Tuesday (when is Tuesday?) for Iguazu and, later Bariloche. Not atypical for me, we flew to Argentina with no plans, no reservations, and generally no idea between the two of us just how in the hell we were going to get anywhere. I spent the better part of the morning locked inside a phone booth at the locotorio down the block, burning off the seventeen pounds of cheese I had for breakfast in the sauna like conditions, using the vocabulary of a two year old to book our flights.

Frankly, I think I did surprisingly well under the circumstances.

Tomorrow, we tackle the hotels. Anyone know how to say “pay per view porn” in Spanish?

Until then, hasta.