Washing, Baking

Today is my day of rest, to go downtown, take care of some delinquent chores and then lay prone by the hostel pool with a book and bake. And that’s what happens. The sun is hot today, and spring is just beginning. I will not book any trips here in the summer. I throw my soiled dainties into a garbage bag and hump it to the lavaderia, a kilometer further then I anticipate. I eat another tasty hostel buffet and Irish invites me to a social gathering with his friends, but it is time to pick up my laundry. After such frantic activity in BsAs there isn’t room in my budget for too much more beer, regardless. My laundry is late, so I take another stroll around town.

Laundry in hand, I sit by the bus stop. An Argentinian girl in her twenties asks me, I presume, a question about the bus which I am too confused to answer, but she doesn't give up and proceeds to talk to me. After several discombobulations, she recommends that I use a diccionario, and how can I argue? But what really stifles the conversation is when I tell her my age. A friend of hers stops by in his car and takes her away and that is that.