The ever-diligent traveler, I had checked in online precisely 23 hours in advance and was happy to grab what I call the Sweet Seat. That is, the window seat in a row not too close to the bathroom and not in front of an emergency row (duh, those don't recline). To add to the sweetness, it was one of those great long-distance planes that have a 2/5/2 layout so even at a window seat, I'd only have to climb over one person on my way to the john. Upon boarding the plane, however, I see a chick my age-ish sitting in my seat, 24J. I politely inform her of her mistake, and she looks at her ticket and she sees she's supposed to be in 26J, how silly of her.
Seeing that she had a boring looking elderly man sitting in the aisle seat next to her, I graciously told her to, please, stay there, and I'd take her seat, which had yet to have someone seated next to it. As I happily maneuver to her window seat, the water bottle attached to my bag somehow popped open and began splashing water all over the aisle seat. Mortified, I immediately try to sop up the water, but with what? The airline-supplied barf bag? No. The disposable blanket and pillow I would surely need for comfort for the next 11 hours? No chance. So I hurriedly swipe the water off the cushion with my hands, hoping that the cushion wasn't absorbent and whoever had 26H was not doomed for 11 hours of wet pants. I held my breath and busied myself with my trail mix and my book, pretending nothing out of the ordinary. I didn't have much time to think about it, really. Moments later, another elderly man made his way over and placed his bag in the overhead directly above me. He was wearing thick wool pants. Do I point out the water and risk having this man create a scene or demand my seat instead? Maybe those pants are so thick he won't even notice. What should I do? I felt like a Larry David character. The angel on my shoulder battled with the devil on the other. I did nothing. The man sat. I continued to read. He looked around. I read. He got up, fussed with his bag in the overhead. I read. He then felt his pants. I held my breath. He motioned to the stewardess that the seat is wet. My heart sunk. I am a terrible person, I thought. Mom, you raised me better than this! But... "No problem!" The stewardess sweetly responded and moved the gentleman to another aisle seat in the next section back, but in the front row, at the bulkhead. I looked back, he seemed happy with the seating, extra leg room! It was a win/win! He got a better row, I got two adjacent seats to myself, with an extra pillow and blanket to curl up in for the night. At which point I did just that. Lesson learned: in future flights, I will pour water on every seat next to me.
11.5 hours later, I step off the plane in (slightly) muggy Buenos Aires. Approach migraciones
and my heart starts beating. Do I tell them I want to stay more than the allowed 90 days? Just say 2 months? Say I'll be coming and going from country to country? The options raced through my head. I am so not good at lying to officials. I walk up to the available Caja 4. And find my nerves were for naught: after dutifully paying the $140 (one-time every 10 year) entrance fee, the Migrations dude didn't even ask me why I was entering his country, let alone how long I was staying. I probably could have worn a sign saying I'm a CIA spy and he wouldn't have noticed.
From there, the rest was gladly uneventful. Both bags came within minutes. "Customs" was a simple baggage scanner conveyor belt type thing. My school-hired chauffeur was outside Customs, bearing a sign embellished with my name. Well, almost my name. Lindsay Berk was close enough.
Enrique and I chatted in my broken Spanish during the 30 minute drive to my apartment in Recoleta, we laughed when I couldn't explain what I meant or couldn't think of the right word, and happily traded small talk about the weather (Yes! I still remember lluvia is rain! Balls! Why is it raining my first day here?!)
We pull up to a leafy residential-ish road with a Carrefour on one corner (amazing), a zapateria (shoe store!) and wine bodega directly under my building, and a Farmasita on the other corner. Caitlin, my school's program coordinator, meets us at the apartment, gives me a quick orientation of the city (uh the Guia T is quite intimidating to me right now... Sarah, help!), and apologetically tells me she forgot the keys to my room and has to go back to her apartment to get them, which is an hour or so away. The cleaning lady then showed up for the weekly clean (yep, that's right), but she didn't have a key to my room, either. The apartment has 4 bedrooms, each with a private key. I'm the second roommate to arrive. Tuhina, a 24-year old was on her way out, we exchanged a brief burst of girly dialogue about good it was to meet each other, and she was gone.
Which brings me to this long post. Hanging out in my new living room, balcony doors wide open (no A/C), cleaning lady mopping around me, wondering if I should go on the school's pub crawl or to an 80s party a friend of a friend from NYC invited me to... this seems too easy. I must have done something right in a past lifetime (perhaps not spilled water on my neighbor's seat?).
ugh, I LOVE this!!!!!!! you are too kewl! :p
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