Como Estas

She asks me "Como Estas?"
"Cansado."
"Si. Tomo cerveza y drugos..."
"Drugs? What sort of drugs?"
" I was out and someone drugged my drink. The girl I was out with said not to worry about it. This is South America."
"No. That’s crazy anyplace."
"Yeah. I threw up after two drinks and I can hold my liquor so I knew something was wrong. I wish I could of confronted the guy so I could throw up on him and beat him up at the same time."

It's cool and drizzly that day. Cool enough for my fleece pullover. Cool enough for London. I walk and walk, make my way to Recoleta, Retiro and Centro and to no-man’s land by the Newberry airport. The women are as lovely as advertised . Cafes abound with wine bars and postres, cafeterias, but not in the American sense. I sit down for a late lunch, 15 pesos, five dollars for chicken breast and a cream sauce strangely reminiscent of creamed corn and tapioca pudding, or it could have been either for that matter.

I wander past Recoleta, somehow missing the immense cemetery altogether, into the endless links of parks and slip into the botanical gardens where punked out kids in Chucks wield shovels and scrape mud off their shoes. I shoot pictures aimlessly while artists sit in the grass with their sketch pads.

I walk the perimeter of the zoo catching a glimpse of some camelid creature or another and the top of a carousel. A clown with a tattered umbrella showing half the metal framework runs amongst the gridlocked traffic in the avenue miming an act, receiving little in return. I pass his bike laying on the ground with a baby doll and an attache propped up on the back wheel.

I pass pizzerias, hamburguesas, chorizo stands, vendors selling bags of brittle, brewing syrup in pans. Pancho, hotdog, stands are everywhere. I walk in a mall of sorts touting the usual underground assortment–dojo shops, alt comics, piercing, tats, toys, Hello Kitty, studded belts and bongs galore. The Ramones, Clash and Social Distortion.

Foamy espresso and cookies are nibbled by dainty women and stately looking gentlemen bearing resemblance to Gabriel Garcia. This is the cup of choice. That night, I grab a dark room at the Farmacia restaurant and sit down on a wooden cube, lean on canvas pads tacked to the wall and, as chicly as I can, order cordero rounds wrapped in jamon on a square white plate with an orange sauce drizzled artfully along with a third round of ratatouille.