Tonight is not a great night to be in my apartment, for the following two reasons:

1. My cleaning lady must have smoked half a pack of cigarettes in here this afternoon.
2. When I tried to air the place out, I was greeted with a warm breeze that smelled like onions. It’s like there’s an invisible giant breathing right into the open window - and this invisible giant needs a mint or a piece of gum in the worst way.

I sure hope things improve in this place by morning, smell-wise.

The other day, I struck up a conversation with a girl, and, after she asked me to tell her something in English, attempted to teach her how to say “Hi”.

“Hi es ‘hola’ en inglés”. I wrote it down.

“Eee?”

No, “Hi”!

This went on for like ten minutes. I left believing she would never speak a single word of English.

Today, I saw her again, and, to my shock, the first thing she said was “Hi, Matt”. She said it in a smooth, confident voice, without a hint of an accent. She sounded like a reporter for CNN. Her pronunciation was so startlingly flawless that I thought she must’ve been messing with me when I first met her.

Recognizing I’d been had, I sort of grinned and said, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“No entiendo nada.”

Which just goes to show that it’s never a good idea to jump to conclusions too quickly.

This past Saturday night, everyone in Buenos Aires moved their clocks ahead one hour. I managed to make it until tonight without realizing this.

I was wondering why everything seemed to be happening on time this week.

Most taxi rides in Buenos Aires are routine affairs. You get in, go from A to B, and get out. Nothing exciting - completely forgettable.

On the other hand, if you take enough cabs, you will have a few rides that are exceptionally memorable.

On one late-night taxi ride, I had a driver, who I’m pretty sure was drunk, talking at me in rapid-fire Castellano for the whole trip. He had no idea that I didn’t speak his language, and politely kept steady eye contact with me, breaking it only to make the sign of the cross and whisper a quick prayer each time we passed a church.

I was puzzled after the first prayer, but after it became clear that we would not be stopping for intersections, red lights, or pedestrians, I understood and was thankful for it. Rather than stop at these places, he would tap the horn a few times and speed through. I can’t complain, though. I made it home in record time, and I learned that I can continue to be a good listener even when I think I’m about to die.

Also, taxi drivers here speak English more often than you’d think. One morning, as my driver and I were sitting in rush hour traffic, the driver threw his hands up and said “Do you believe this? Same shit, different day. This traffic was the same shit yesterday. Always the same shit at this time!”

The traffic was, in fact, worse than usual because of a protest* going on, and he started to rant about the President, Cristina Fernández de Kirchner: how she’s an idiot, doesn’t know anything about the country, doesn’t care about the people. And then he remarked, “But you know about that! You have Bush! He’s the same shit. The same shit as Kirschner. Everywhere, it’s always the same shit! What do you think about Bush?”

I let him know that I didn’t vote for Bush and quickly changed the subject to the weather, which, for July, was unseasonably warm. “This is our winter!” he said, “Do you believe this! Here, it’s this hot in the winter!** It’s very nice; look at what I’m wearing in the winter! Not like where you come from, right?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” I said, “I came here from Miami.”

“Oh!” he said, “it’s the same shit there! Always hot! Same shit as here!”

Yep.

But wait a second.

I think warm weather is nice. He had just said he thought so, too. I wouldn’t think of two places that have warm weather as having “the same shit”. Traffic problems - sure. Incompetent politicians - of course. But nice weather? I’d call that having “the same really good thing”.

And then I got it: he thought that “the same shit” simply meant “the same”.

He’d probably heard one of his passengers say “same shit, different day”, didn’t recognize the phrase, and, when he asked what it meant, was hastily told that it just meant “the same”.

I didn’t have it me to correct him, and I don’t mean to make fun of the guy, but I did tip him especially well because I knew I’d definitely get a lot of mileage out of this story.

*North American protesters should take a trip to South America to learn how protesting’s done. Here, you’ll find none of this “honk if you support workers’ rights” garbage. We get all-day events, parades with dozens of giant marching-band drums, abandoned trucks blocking major traffic arteries. One group came up with a catchy song and sang it from the back of a vegetable truck with a microphone, huge speakers, and full-band accompaniment. This is major-league protesting. I don’t how effective it is in terms of getting what they want, but, in terms of performance, these protesters commit.

**Not usually. If you’re coming in July or August, bring a coat. You’ll need it.

Just to your right, you’ll find my brand-new Twitter feed. You’re all welcome to follow it; you’ll have to join Twitter in order to do that. If you don’t want to, don’t worry, the three most recent updates will always appear on the front page of this site.

I’m not gonna lie, I’m proud of myself for getting Twitter up there.

For the first time since I’ve been here, there was no line whatsoever at the supermarket. I was in and out in like 10 minutes.

Turns out that today is Mother’s Day (”El Día de la Mamá”) in Argentina.

If you weigh less than 190 lbs, the bridge that crosses the train tracks near Libertador 5400 will probably not collapse under the weight of your body. (As long as you step gingerly.)

If you’re a little heavier, I strongly advise you to use a different route.

Advice from Matt, provided totally free of charge to the public:

If you are not a native speaker of a particular language, it’s a great idea to pay very close attention to what someone is saying to you. If anything sounds unclear or ambiguous in any way, it is almost always worth the few seconds it takes to slowly repeat your understanding of the ambiguous word or phrase back to the speaker.

For example, “dos y media” means “2:30″, while “doce y media” means “12:30″.

If your housekeeper, who has a key to your apartment, says that she will arrive at “doce y media” and you mis-hear “dos y media”, she could very well arrive two hours before you thought she would, and let herself in while you’re sitting on your couch, in your boxers, watching an episode of Mad Men.

Every Tuesday at 2:30, a cleaning lady visits my apartment. It’s a service included in my rental contract, and it really is a great perk. The only problem is this: there are weeks when I’m such a slob, that, before she gets here, I have to do a fairly time-consuming pre-cleaning in order to make the place somewhat presentable.

This week is one of those weeks. Because, honestly, if this weren’t my own apartment, and someone were to tell me that it was my job to clean it, I would quit on the spot.

Friday night. 2:30 AM. You’re on your way home from a dinner party. (Believe it or not, in Buenos Aires, this is not an unusual time for a dinner party to end.)

You are on the street by yourself trying to get a cab home, when a bus stops in front of you and a group of five of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen in your life gets off. No exaggeration whatsoever. Perfect score. Ten out of ten. Each one.

And then one of them asks you (in Castellano) for directions. Imagine if that conversation went something like this:

Supermodel #1: “Blah Blah Blah” (en Castellano)

You: “Lo siento, no hablo español.”

Supermodel #2 (unbelievably): “So you speak English? Where are you from?”

You: “The United States - Miami”

Supermodels #1-5 look at each other as if they’ve just realized that they’re talking to Brad Pitt or Justin Timberlake, and then at you, as if you’re a genie who can grant their every wish, and then uncontrollably gush some variation of:

“MIAMI! Bonissimo! Dios mio! Oh! I love Miami! People in Miami are so cool! What’s your name?”

You: “Um, Matt” (if in fact that were your name)

Supermodels #1 - 5 all repeat “Matt”, eagerly introduce themselves, and identify themselves as residents of some suburb of Buenos Aires (Moreno, I think). And then:

“We are looking for Coronel Diaz; can you help us find it? There is - there’s - a big party happening there. It is going to be muy, um, very good.”

What would you say?

Something like “Oh, yeah, I’m heading that way, I’ll walk you”? Or maybe, “What kind of party?” Or perhaps, “Sure! I love parties! Who gets to be my date?”

I said:

“Oh yeah, you just take a left around the corner and then go straight for a block or two.”

What?!?

I blew it, right? Nope, not yet!

Supermodel #2 (looking crestfallen): “I no understand, could you say that more slow? This neighborhood is new for us.”

Second chance, big guy. No one gets a second chance like this!

And so:

Me (very patiently, using hand gestures this time): “Oh sure. You… go… left. Then… walk straight (doing the FSU tomahawk chop to illustrate “straight”) for one block… un cuadro… o dos.”

And then the girls nodded slowly and followed my directions. And probably enjoyed an awesome party with someone who, on that particular night, wasn’t acting like a social imbecile.

I was able to get a cab like a minute after they all disappeared from view, though. So that was something.

Life sucks when you’re an idiot.

UPDATE: The scene was a little like this, except it was at night, in a city, and more pathetic: