Really, any superpower would have helped me on Saturday. After all, isn’t it a common trope to have the hero save some hapless victim from a robbery?

Max and I were walking to museums on Avenida del Libertador, and accidentally skewed right onto a different street that passes by the law school. We noticed that we were on the wrong street, but we saw the giant flower in the distance and wanted to take a picture. Suddenly, we felt something wet. And sticky. And smelly. And green. It was my worst idle nightmare from living in the city for years. A pigeon letting loose onto clean clothing and hair. I always wondered if my office would accept that as a fair excuse for showing up late for work. I mean, it must happen to people every so often. Right?

A pair of women came up to us and offered water and tissues to help clean up. In fact, they physically cleaned us, vigorously wiping and soaking and well, distracting, as you clever readers have no doubt guessed already. Max was terribly sweet and was just thinking of getting me clean. I too, knew that he really wanted to see the museums and taking a cab back would be a waste of time. This went unspoken, and we focused on cleaning. The women kept making comments about the importance of cleaning right away and using proper techniques, and since they were older, I took this as motherly advice. Bear in mind that they kept us turned towards the street the entire time, moved our heads to look for hair stains, and tried to take off my purse once. Max took off his jacket and sweater, and, sadly, his camera bag. They walked off with his beautiful, expensive, SLR wonder of a camera, and his credit card, and we realized the loss a second too late

(Please offer support to Max on his site. He is really upset, and will be asking for donations soon. Even a few centavos would be a generous gesture to make him feel better.)

We tried going into the law building to ask about cameras, and even went so far as to fill out a police report, but it will likely be in vain. The tourist police officer was super-nice, in comparison to the utterly patronizing regular police officers who kept patting me on the shoulder and telling me to calm down. I sort of wanted to punch them. I feel incredibly stupid, especially because I had read about this same trick on a government fact sheet before leaving the country. So here is another warning to add to the pile. It makes me think that the U.S. idea of personal space is a better idea. I mean, in what situation is it okay for perfect strangers to touch you all over? (Insert dirty joke here, kids) We are adults; we could have cleaned ourselves. Instead, they cleaned us out. Ouch. I might have to retract that last little play on words.

And finally, a different sort of warning entirely, and one really unrelated to Argentina. Stay away from this:

Seriously, it is the worst toothpaste conceivable. It falls off the toothbrush. It doesn’t foam up well, if that makes any sense, and remains chunky. However, what made it utterly wretched was the flavor. Apparently, peppermint to the max! means to the point of pain. Not dentist-cleaning pain. This is somehow worse, a searing and frozen experience. It lasted forever because I didn’t want to waste money on more toothpaste, but since I couldn’t brush for more than thirty seconds at a time, my teeth probably suffered doubly. I haven’t used enough Jason products to condemn the whole company, but the painful memories are going to prove difficult to forget. Anyway, the lesson here is personal space and toothpaste without punctuation. Clearly.

from La Boca is my current advice. Granted, I have only been in the neighborhood once, but my opinion is pretty set: La Boca sucks, and not in any sort of pleasing way.

We decided to bike there one afternoon (a while ago, actually, because of sickness, so if this memory seems a bit exaggerated, that’s why) to sightsee. The ride itself is only a half hour from San Telmo, if that. No hills really, but traveling in the quieter, residential areas of La Boca was mildly unnerving. The streets were basically deserted, except for the occasional stray animal. Everywhere else I had been in Buenos Aires had plenty of people about, or at least plenty of cars. And, of course, the guidebooks all have fairly threatening warnings about traveling on the side streets of La Boca, especially with cameras, money, etc. So I was worried, especially since Max didn’t know the route by heart and we had to look at the map. This isn’t really a reason to dislike the neighborhood, but it did color my mood.

Once we arrived at the main streets, all the buildings were brightly colored and people were selling their wares. In fact, one man offered us tango lessons. Again and again, and angrier each time. Seriously, we made an effort to not bike by his corner again because he would not stop soliciting. Meanwhile, the only police officer I saw glared at us. I swear! This may have been due to the sheer number of tourists around that day. Maybe it was because they weren’t walking amongst the locals, but I noticed more foreigners than ever before. And I couldn’t figure out why. What was the main thing that people came to see? There was a small museum that we admittedly didn’t go into, and a soccer stadium? I think? People do like sports.

When we stopped to eat, we met some tourists that I honestly wanted to slap. We decided on a random outdoor cafe so we could keep an eye on our bikes. A woman walked by, holding the hand of a toddler. She was selling magazines for 2 pesos, as part of a program for the homeless. Here’s the info, if you speak Spanish. The sellers get to keep 1.30 from each magazine they sell. Granted, I didn’t know this until I bought one, but it was 2 pesos. $.66. Why not? Meanwhile, there were two middle-aged couples sitting at the table next to ours. When the woman tried to sell a magazine, they said that they didn’t speak Spanish. She suggested other languages, and they laughed, and said, “Japanese.” And then they continued laughing as she walked away. They were obviously from the U.S. They started talking to Max when they noticed his Columbia jacket, and apparently they were visiting Argentina to hunt geese and ducks. I am not trying to draw a connection between laughing at the homeless and shooting birds, because perfectly kind and generous people go hunting. I know them. Unfortunately, this is how this story happened.

Finally, the food was just awful. Wretched coffee, a salad, some bread, and one empanada all for 30 pesos. I know that it’s only $10, but that is some serious price-gouging for what I had come to expect from Buenos Aires. You could get 20 empanadas for that amount. Two large pizzas. One really nice bottle of wine. I could go on, but you get the point. And here’s the thing about salads. They list everything that will be in the salad on the menu. So ensalada de rucula is just that: a whole bunch of arugula (They bring oil and vinegar if you ask, though). I had forgotten that fact, and so check out my bitchin’ carrot and egg salad (all for the low, low price of 15 pesos)!

Great colors in La Boca, wouldn’t you say? Bah. Some of the local artists did have some interesting things, so I may come back just for that. And the artist who sang Queen’s Bicycle Race as we went by does have a special place in my heart. If you have limited time in Buenos Aires and, um, a cape? wings? hollow bones?, fly over La Boca to see the pretty buildings. Otherwise, La Boca might just swallow you whole. That’s what she said.

would have been nice. I am not sure why I always manage to overpack my bags, but I already have plans in motion for smuggling extra pounds of Argentine glory with a mule. Details to follow. So I barely managed to lug my bags through the airport to the bank, which apparently has better exchange rates that the currency exchange kiosks throughout the airport.

Quiosco. My name would be Quira under that translation.

I exchanged money. They wanted to see my passport to do so, and if it hadn’t been 6 am, I would have asked why. Actually, this whole post will end up being pretty useless for future travelers, as I didn’t explore the airport at all. It seemed perfectly clean and there were flat-screen monitors challenging the customs line to create anagrams. tablet=battle.

Oh! Here is some advice. When waiting for customs, a three-note chime would ring when the next person could go up to the booth. Max, the music major, tells me that it was a triad. If the line is long and you haven’t slept, this sound will bore into your very soul. So, um, wear headphones. A number will display showing the next booth available anyway.

The bags were heavy (have you heard?), so when a man asked if I needed a taxi, I said yes. Mind you, this was approximately 3 seconds after a security guard had handed me a flier, in spanish and english, instructing me to not accept verbal offers for transportation, and to walk up to the large booth in the center of the airport. You can’t miss it. I didn’t really miss it, so much as want to hand my person off to anyone that would take me to the nearest flat surface to collapse. So the fact that I ended up paying $15 USD and 250 pesos for the ride into the city was entirely my fault, as the airport was really trying to protect idiot tourists from the world. Oh, and the $15 was because the 100 peso bill was ripped, and so he said he couldn’t deposit it in the bank. This had to have been bullshit, but again, tired.

That reminds me…the name of this blog was determined at 2 am the day before my flight. doyouhavetheargentime.com, myfunnyargentime.com, superfunargentime.com, and various other miserable puns were on the table. So comment away, but have some mercy. This blog will not be clever. It may be helpful to travelers. We’ll see.