Che boludo
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A massive blue and white flag is covering all the walls of the arrival hall, everywhere I look there’s some reference to the world cup and the accent and vocabulary I hear would confuse any non-native speaker.
Who would’ve thought I’d end up here? The return to Latin America has gone everything but according to plan. The happily ever after turned into howling at the moon once more. From holding hands to fingers slipping, from love songs to the most raunchy reggaeton.
Last year I spent a staggering eight days in this country before I headed up north. This time around I’m set on crushing that impressive record.
I step out of the arrival hall. My eyelids, securely shut by the red-eye and its transfer, are opened by the early morning cold. Wait… ‘early morning cold’?
I look around me: people wearing jackets, hats, scarves and even a pair of gloves. I see a man shivering, I see a woman with teeth chattering. Here I was, thinking that I was in Latin America.
“What have I done?” I whisper.
All those around me are smiling and seem to enjoy this thing called cold. They are beyond repair. I wipe a frozen tear from my cheek and jump back inside, barely avoiding the frostbite.
I put on a ski-mask, three jackets and make a collect call to their president. Emphasizing that this was not what we had agreed upon before my departure. After promising a refund and a public apology, I buy world’s most expensive bus ticket and head out to the transport waiting for me.
I place my backpack on my lap and sit down. A friendly elder, sitting behind me, elaborates on the history and current state of his country. Minutes go by and the feeling in my fingers starts returning. Buildings become plenty, traffic becomes horrid and numerous citizens appear.
As the city starts to take shape I doze off to the soothing sound of Latin American Morgan Freeman’s voice. Another adventure in the making.
“Hola, Argentina.”
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