Note: The following posts are parts from a 45 page journal entry (in word 23 pages), I wrote while in Buenos Aires. The entries were written during my first three days in the city. I had a rough start but by the end of my trip all was ok. However, my final thoughts about my destiny with the city in part 8 still stand true.
P.S. I am including a soundtrack with each post. All the songs are from my “The Return to Buenos Aires” playlist. I hope you enjoy!
Here is part seven of the epic journal entry. Don’t forget to read Pt 6 before you read any further.
As we shuffled over to the next bar, my age became a topic of amazement again. Lucas, Darci’s friend, glanced back at us. “What are you guys talking about?” He asked.
“How I look like I stepped in the fountain of youth,” I replied.
“You know she’s 27, right?” Quinlan asked.
“Yeah I heard,” Lucas replied, eyeing me. “It’s actually pretty scary.”
When we walked into the pub, shots were passed around and the money collector made another announcement. We all yelled, “Salud!” when he was done and cheered before we knocked back our shots. I noticed Argentines scattered about the place, looking over at us and our commotion with curiosity, probably wondering what the heck our rowdy group was spouting off at the mouth about in English.
“I would like to check out the upstairs,” Wendy said.
“Me too!” I agreed, as I began to get jostled by people squeezing by me. As Wendy and I made our way towards the stairs, I had to squeeze by two young Argentine guys in button down dress shirts. One glanced down at me and then I felt a tap on my shoulder as he passed. I knew what that meant, what it would be the start of five years ago. The old Morocha would have answered the call. The new Morocha continued up the stairs with Wendy.
The upstairs was completely empty but nice. Cierrah, Darci and Danijela decided to play pool. After a few more chats, Wendy and I decided it was time to part from our group and get some food before we both fainted. As we were about to announce the news, a ball of speedy energy in the form of a young man— probably twenty with long black hair, olive skin and a sporty outfit — pranced out of nowhere around us. He reminded me of a modern day Puck from “A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”
“Hello,” he cooed to Danijela as he kissed her on both cheeks. His eyes darted to me. “And I don’t know you,” he said.
“She’s Jennifer from New York,” Danijela said, introducing me.
He bounced up and down on his heels. “Oh! Ho, ho!” He slapped me a five then made a knuckled fist and tapped it against mine, finishing the bizarre handshake by knocking our elbows together. I was amazed I was able to follow along. Does he think we greet like this in New York?
He brought his attention to Wendy. “And you? Where are you from?”
“London,” she replied, unimpressed by his antics.
“Oh! Excuse me,” he said, switching gears. He crossed one leg in front of the other and bowed to her, twirling his hand as he did. His action reminded me of a jester. I knew his greeting was one he believed to be befitting of someone from London. However, Wendy was still unimpressed.
Just as quickly as he had come, he turned and flitted away up the stairs. “Where’s he from? I asked Danijela as I watched him disappear with his Puck like speed.
“Columbia,” she replied. “His mother’s are lesbians from Spain and he turned out to be gay.” She shrugged with a go figure gesture…
(To be continued)